Truth or Tale (I): Bright Blade
by kaispan
Summary: As a wild mage, Sajantha had more reason than most to censor herself. It had been a necessity, in Candlekeep, to curb the potential of danger. Cautious, careful. Controlled. But she wasn't in Candlekeep any longer. And out here, being too cautious—too hesitant—could get her killed. BG1: Imoen, Edwin, Jaheira, Khalid, Dynaheir, Minsc. Sequel to CK prologue. (currently: bandit camp!)
1. Chapter 1 (Candlekeep)

_ Mirtul 1, 1368 DR  
Year of the Banner_

The room flickered. Sunlight filtered through slatted beams overhead, sending shadows crawling as she ran. Cobwebs dangled, reached like fingers to trail up her back—to wind down her neck—to choke her. As if they tangled with the musty air gathered thick in her throat, she could not breathe—

Feet faltered, shadows flickering faster as her head dipped. A bar of light stretched beneath the door. She staggered towards it. The hand catching her balance caught splinters instead.

She stumbled, and the light stretched—split her vision like a crack—unyielding as the wooden door before her. With no other way to channel her momentum, her fingers fumbled at the latch.

The gate swung open and the sun swallowed her. Blinking, but spots stayed in her eyes. Burned through them. She moved to wipe them—

"Sajantha?"

Her hand froze, all of her frozen in the cool spring air.

"Hey, there, Sajantha! You alright?"

No air to scream, but her breath came faster. She barely squeezed out a sound: "Dreppin?" The voice emerged unfamiliar. Painful. She reached towards her throat, and Dreppin's mouth fell open.

He was looking at her hands. He was looking at her hands, and his eyes were so wide that she had to look down at them, too; she had to see that which drew all the color from the young man's cheeks and painted her own skin.

Red.

Sajantha stared at her bloody hands. "What happened?" the stable-hand whispered, taking a step towards her. She stepped back; the barn wall struck the rest of the air from her. Her fingers gripped the doorframe—kept her upright—and the empty barn stared back at her, so unassuming and grievously banal that it was all too easy to believe _nothing _had happened. She wanted to believe that. And she could have, did not the evidence stain her own skin.

Dreppin followed her gaze, and a frown slipped onto his face: grim lines that stretched his lips thin and grooved into his brow, furrowed it into a question. Perhaps her wide eyes held answer enough.

He reached for the shovel leaning against the wall beside her. It scratched against the wooden side of the barn as he drew it close; its metal scrape so very like the sound of a blade being drawn that she flinched. A weapon. Dreppin hefted the tool awkwardly. Far more proficient in its intended use than as a makeshift bludgeon, he still did not hesitate to push open the door, set on confronting whatever she had left behind.

"Don't—" she wanted to say—wanted to stay—but somehow she re-tread steps right behind him, somehow her nerveless feet followed.

Not far. Had it been so few steps, to stretch like miles in her mind? Dreppin had already stopped. His hefted shovel bit into the ground with a crunch that sank into her bones; she tried not to jump. "He's dead," she said, before he could. "I think... I think he's dead."

Dreppin's turn to jump. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder, raking a hand through his hair. "What—what in the hells happened? Er, beggin' yer pardon, Miss Sajantha."

He swallowed, and in the nervous bob of his throat, she saw again fingers clutching, clenching. Choking. She lifted an unsteady hand to her own neck. "He tried to kill me." Somehow saying it didn't make it seem any more real, even with the bruised evidence on her throat.

The shovel tipped, unnoticed, as Dreppin took a closer look. "You alright?" His voice emerged as hoarse as hers.

Sajantha nodded. She was alive, and that was something—wasn't it? She was alive and her assailant was not, because—because—

Dreppin cleared his throat, looking towards the fallen figure. The body. "This fellow, you ever seen him before?" She shook her head, kept shaking it til he glanced back up to see it. "What was he doing skulking about the stables, I wonder?" Dreppin cocked his head. "Matter of fact—what were you doing back here? It's not so often we see you runnin' about out-of-doors."

"Phyldia thought she might have left a book over here." The utter absurdity of it combined with Dreppin's still-concerned expression prompted a laugh to hiccup loose.

Sajantha slid down the doorway's wooden post, her back to the scene. "I..." The laughing gasp broke free again, sounding ever-closer to a sob: "I can't believe—"

"Hey, hey, now." Dreppin crouched before her. "It's okay. It's over. You're alright."

"But he's—he's _dead_," she said, and saying it aloud did not lend it any sense, did not shine any more light through the dim, latticed room. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "I killed him, didn't I?"

Dreppin glanced away. "He ain't breathing, that's for sure."

Sajantha bit her lip but a cry still built beneath it. She brought up her hand to smother it, but her hand was red. It was bloody. The sob that scraped free of her throat hurt far more than it should have.

Dreppin blocked the light as he stood, drew his shadow after him. The speed with which he returned surprised her—her own first thought had been of escape.

"Here," he offered, kneeling beside her once again. "You look a bit green. Might be I've just the thing." Sajantha stared at the potion outstretched in his hands. "Ain't much left after Nessa got through with it, but even a drop oughta clear you right up."

It would hurt too much to laugh again. She squinted at the mixture. "You're giving me something you fed to your cow?"

Dreppin settled back onto his heels. "She didn't be drinking it right out of the bottle, now, did she?" He unstoppered the mixture with care. "Besides, it was Hull's first of all; Imoen can tell you so."

"Imoen can't tell a potion of antidote from a potion of firebreath," Sajantha muttered, but she took the vial.

He gave her a small smile. "Well, I can vouch as Nessa's not seen a better day soon as we got that liquid in her—and no fire 't all."

Not that any fire could exist within Candlekeep that the wards did not allow. She managed to smile back at him. Hull's? A hangover remedy, most likely. It settled her stomach, but did little to calm her nerves. She leaned back against the doorframe, as drained as the empty bottle. "Thanks, Dreppin."

"Of—of course, Miss Sajantha." He straightened again, looking about; his nerves seemed wound tight as her own. "I should go and—well. Someone should report this." Almost like a question, the opening gave Sajantha pause.

Reality intruded, then, in the returning pound of her heart, in the coldness of the glass between her fingers. Sajantha squeezed the empty bottle tighter. She had killed a man. She had _killed_ a man! And it would not be long, now, before everyone would know, that this numbness need give way to something tangible, to a truth she'd be forced to face as fact. Face the others.

"Don't—" she almost said, and as the word grew with an urgency to fill her mind, as it came to fill her mouth—she knew that if she loosed it, if she asked—she knew that he would obey her. She knew it with a certainty that belied how well she knew the man. He would do as she asked. She knew, somehow, he would even help her cover this up... she had only to suggest it.

Possibility burned on her lips like the residue of the potion, and she swallowed it back down. She could do that. But the truth would get out, sooner or later.

And what would her father think?

"Came as soon as I heard. What with me drowning in laundry suds, wasn't near quick enough—darn ol' Puffguts!" Imoen ceased her grumbling the moment she looked around the clinic, lowering herself to a seat beside Sajantha and lowering her voice: "The hells happened, Sajantha? Are you—are you okay?"

"The bastard tried to wring her neck," Dreppin answered for her with a glare, and Sajantha was as grateful for his interjection as the ire that filled him on her behalf.

Imoen turned to look down the hall, her fingers tightening into Sajantha's shoulder. "Wh—why, the _nerve _of some folk! Where is that wretch? I hope you showed him, Sajantha, I really do."

"Well—" Sajantha's voice emerged in a croak, and she coughed. "I guess you could put it that way. He's dead. I... I killed him." However quietly she spoke them, however she longed to distance herself from them—the words returned to echo, and seemed to fill the room: lengthening with the silence to tower over them both.

The silence stretched on, a pause in which Sajantha became very aware of the arm that still rested about her shoulders and its growing weight—a weight that seemed to increase, dragging heavier with each creeping second.

"Good on you!" Imoen said after an interminable moment, giving her a clap on the back. "Good riddance. I'da done it myself, if you hadn't already."

"I wouldn't wish you any trouble on my account." The weight of Imoen's arm had not disappeared, but it was no longer a burden, just a warmth.

"What else are friends for?" Imoen gave a little shrug. "The gods know I've left you swimmin' in hot water before. Once or twice. Only when you could handle it, but—something like this... You know I wouldn't have you face it alone."

"Thanks," Sajantha whispered, and let her head tip against Imoen's shoulder.

"'Course. We none of us would let you down; Gorion, neither." Imoen leaned forward, arm tightening around Sajantha. "He's fixing to haul you right out of here, mark my words."

"What do you mean?" Sajantha sat up, saw Imoen making a face.

"Forget I said anything."

Her father flew into the room with a swirl of cloak and sound. Not until the door slammed shut behind him did his robes fall still against his ankles.

It was more than his keen gaze that warmed Sajantha, alighting on her as swiftly as it did—the room seemed brighter, somehow, with him in it. It seemed full. And so did she: invigorated with a new energy, more than enough to propel her across the room—Sajantha closed the distance, enclosed herself between those great green sleeves that rose to envelop her.

"Father," she choked. From within his embrace, the rest of the world seemed so distant, as if the curtain of robes could mute more than just sound. He squeezed her back just as tight. That pressure released another; somehow she could breathe again. "Oh, Father, it was horrible."

_It will be alright. _The fire in the hearth and her father's embrace grew stifling as she held her breath, waiting to hear his reassurance.

"Ah, my child..." he spoke at last, and his quiet voice wheezed out a sigh: melancholy woven into breath.

"What is it?" When she stepped back, it was as if darkness was free to descend upon her in the chill of his absence; that same grim dread that enshadowed his own self clutched at hers. "Father...?"

"Make your farewells," was all he said. "We leave tonight."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Told you so," Imoen muttered as Gorion led Sajantha, ever his shadow, from the room. Not that anyone should have been surprised, really; you didn't need to work divination to see this was shaping into some kind of mess.

And Gorion somewhere at the root of it. Harper business, if she had to guess—leastways, that letter she'd found seemed to say as much. That man could try the patience of the Crying God himself with all this underhanded mystery. Wasn't Imoen's fault she had to be equally evasive when it came to uncovering the goings-on about the keep. And if she hadn't been poking about, well, she'd have nothing near an idea of what was going on; never mind the sick feeling that came of confirming it was bad news, all of it. _What we have long feared may soon come to pass..._

So maybe it had taken a peek at that letter on his desk to spur things off, but Gorion had been acting strange for tendays, now. And there had been some peculiar fellows about the keep of late—one of them she was sure she'd just seen. That should have been nigh on impossible what with Candlekeep's strict rules of limited entry. Some kind of sorcery at work? Ulraunt wouldn't start making exceptions, him being so against their own extended stay.

"What do you know of it, kid?" Hull asked.

"Kid!" Imoen turned away from the door, hands on her hips. "Watch yourself, Watcher. How many ways I got to prove to you I ain't a kid no longer?" She waggled her eyebrows and gave him a wink, smirked as he scowled. "Saw something I maybe shouldn't have, is all."

Hull crossed his arms, with a little bit of a glare in his eyes and a little bit of pink to his ears, but that was definite curiosity on his face. "Yeah? And what was it this time?"

Dreppin shook his head with a wry smile for her. "Immy, you couldn't stay out of trouble we tied you up."

"You'd have to catch me first!" Imoen made a face, a smirk she didn't really feel. "I'll tell ya what I saw, though: bit of paper with words enough to shake things up. Sajantha's not long for Candlekeep, not at all."

A silence fell for a moment, giving their hungry minds a chance to digest. Food for thought, right? Then the door swung open again, like some errant exclamation point. One of the other Watchers clanked on in—on duty, if the armor weighing him down meant a thing.

"We've turned the town upside-down, and sure enough—another rat came scrabbling out," Fuller said. With all that clatter in his full plate, he had their attention even before he started waving the paper around: "This was on him." He handed the paper off to Hull with a nod. "Chief's questioning the fellow right now."

Hull stared a moment, then let out a low whistle. Imoen's curiosity ballooned near to bursting. "Was this what you saw?" he asked, as his eyes flicked up. "Looks like our girl's got a bounty on her."

"Lies and fiddlesticks!" snapped Imoen, eagerness deflating with a pop. Still quick to swipe the paper out from under him, she left Hull blinking at his empty hands. "Leave the bull-talkin' for the cows, here," she added, shouldering the much-larger man aside as she hunkered down beside the firelight to peer at the page.

She took her time scanning it, but it was straightforward enough that its meaning was unmistakable. As unmistakable as the drawing of the half-elf that stared out from the page: short curls, big eyes and all.

"Huh." Hull had it true, or near enough. A bounty notice. _The other side will move very soon. _ "Two-hundred... You could buy a lot of ale for that." And speaking of ale, it was something very like that sick feeling of over-indulging that bubbled up inside her gut. The paper crumpled a bit in her hands.

"That's two-hundred coin in _gold_, girl: not copper, not silver. It's blood money." Fuller took the letter back, smoothing it out with a great deal of care. "And this here is evidence. We'll need it to conduct a proper trial."

"Proper, my foot!" Imoen said, giving it a stamp. "There won't be any sort of trial. Gorion's dragging her off as we speak; your witness will be gone afore the sun is."

"We won't be needing Sajantha for a witness, Imoen."

"You just said there was another of these scum-scuts. What's the trial for, it ain't him?"

Fuller frowned at her language, or maybe at her misunderstanding. "Sajantha killed someone, Imoen. It follows there will be a trial—for her—regardless of the circumstances."

Imoen drew in a sharp breath, hands heading for her hips, and he cut her right off: "We can't just ignore it. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it was self-defense—but we need to find the truth."

"The truth!" Imoen had to force out a laugh. "You all know her, same as me. What's this 'maybe'? 'Course it was self-defense! Why would she do it at all, if he didn't come at her first?"

Fuller kept his impenetrable guard-duty face on. So, he wanted to play it that way? A loud sigh spilled from Imoen before she locked her arms together tight. "Alright. Fine. Let's say Sajantha was actually set to kill someone. Had the poor sod picked out and everything. Why bother forging up some bounty notice to excuse it? She's smart. She could come up with something better, if'n she really wanted. In fact, no one would even miss him! She could have had him well-and-buried without a fuss 't all."

Hull sighed. "You're not really helping, Imoen."

"And I don't mean to be! You want to point fingers and call her a murderer? Well. If you're crazy enough to actually believe it, not a thing I can say'll bring you around."

"Imoen." Fuller looked like he was trying real hard to be patient and didn't much care for it. "No one is accusing her of anything. The trial's an official procedure, nothing more. It's as Ulraunt speaks it, and there's none of us can argue."

"Then he'd best be the one to haul after Gorion his own self, because that man's not waiting for no one or no thing—and I sure wouldn't stand in his way." Sajantha's father hadn't never looked more serious, not even the time he had caught Imoen nicking coins off the donation plate in the temple. "You want his girl so bad, you've got to cross him first." She gave a firm nod for some extra emphasis: good luck with _that. _If Gorion ever came after her looking the way he did, she'd take off clear in the other direction and keep underground for a good tenday. A month, even.

"I, I saw her, sir. Right after," Dreppin spoke up, and his words tumbled out like maybe he'd been straining to hold them in this whole time. "She were real shook up. I'd say the same before Ulraunt and any judge: Sajantha ain't no murderer."

"There'll be more of these folk after her," Imoen spoke up just as quick. "They've just got to run. That's why they're leaving now." _A moving target is much harder to hit._ And that hushed the group right up; with no ammunition to reload, they fell silent. Imoen couldn't feel triumphant, though, not at all. Not when it was the urgency of the situation she had pointed them all towards.

"The both of them by themselves? Out there in the wilds, in the dark? That'll be tough for two skirts." Hull threw the soldiers' slang lightly, but there was some real concern underneath.

"Well, I don't aim to let them go it alone, I don't." Imoen straightened, brushing off her trousers. "Sajantha needs an eye on her, sure as anyone."

Hull hesitated. "You know the rules, don't you? If you cross that gate, well... you can't exactly hop back over the wall. Not even you, Imoen."

She put on a grin. "I'll be back, don't you fear."

He shrugged a little bit. "A thousand's a bit pricey for a visit."

Imoen shrugged right back. "I'll make my fortune—and some more, besides. I'll be back to visit; see if I don't!"

"You'll see how the big the world is, and forget about us little people." Fuller made a bit of a racket shifting in his armor. "But don't let us stop you."

"I sure wish I could go with you all," Dreppin said.

"Just who's stopping you? Saddle up old Nessie here, and we'll be gone in two shakes of her tail."

"Aw, I really wish I could, but... what do you need me for? A stable-hand won't do you no good out there. And Nessa's not the only one with a weak stomach."

"Well, swell!" Imoen stuck out her tongue before turning to the guardsmen. "I s'pose you two got the runaround for me next?"

Hull scratched his head. "You want the Gatewarden chasing down your trail as well? We'll be here keeping watch, as ever."

Imoen sighed, looking to Fuller without much confidence. "Sorry, kiddo," the older guard said. "But here—I got this dagger, my father's..." He gave the weapon a long look as he pulled it from his belt. "Killed him a hobgoblin with it once, stuck it right in the back." Fuller held the sheathed blade flat out in his hand. "Watch your back out there, okay?"

"Shucks, Fuller—you softie!" Imoen grasped the dagger and planted it proudly through her own belt before planting a kiss on the surprised guard's cheek. "You'd be more 'n welcome to join the fun."

Fuller rubbed the back of his neck. "We've a job here, you know. A duty we take seriously." But he looked pleased. "And we need to find out just how that sort of rabble managed to get past us. That can't be allowed to happen again. We'll be stepping up on security, for certain." He gave her a look: "Not such a bad time for you to be vanishing, maybe."

Hull was studying her. "You're sure about this, then. They're really leaving? And taking you along?"

Well, sure on one of those counts, at least. "I don't mean to be asking, so don't none of you say a word. They won't even know I'm along til it's past late to send me back."

"Just won't be the same without you girls stirring things up."

"Yeah, you'd best keep on your toes, or Winthrop'll have you elbow-deep in the rest of that laundry."

"Knew we kept you around for something."

"You'll miss me soon as I turn around, Hull—you know it!"

He rolled his eyes. "Already have someone else lined up to buy you ales, I bet."

"Harder to find someone worth drinking 'em with." A cheeky grin worked just as good as a wink; Hull shook his head, but his own grin peeked out.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"How did I not see it?" Miirym kept to the upper stretch of the underhalls as she neared; her shadow halted well short of Sajantha as she hovered. "You have the mark of blood on you, of death—how did these blind eyes not see it?"

"Someone tried to kill me." The red on her hands was now from the fury of scrubbing them clean.

"Yet she does not perish, no; the child of chaos will weather the flood. She alone will. But... not alone? Is she leaving?"

"Yes, I—we're leaving the keep. My father and I. We're leaving tonight."

"And you will not be returning?"

"I can't say when. I don't think even he knows, for sure. But what I _can_ say—well—I wanted to say goodbye. And," Sajantha reached into her pack, "I've a gift for you. It's not much, but..." She held it out. "I brought you color—_all_ the colors. It's a prism, a prismatic ray. My father helped me enchant it."

No hands to grasp it, but a breath of magic lifted it into the air; a rainbow of lights hung between them as if painted there. "Until you can see the sky again," Sajantha said, squinting into the sparkle. "May the darkness be kind to you."

Miirym's voice fell quiet, as if she had drawn back a great distance. "Oh, the darkness will be to me as it has always been. May your kindness be enough to light your own path through it." Lights flickered on the dragon's empty skull as she turned her head. "Tell my tale, Sajantha. Set the world to weeping. Rivers will flow behind you. You will tell them, won't you? Sajantha? You will not let me be forgotten?"

Sajantha stretched out her hand, touching the cool bone of Miirym's forehead. She closed her eyes and imagined the feel of scales, warm with life. Imagined a gust of breath to stir the stale air. "I won't forget."

"Such a sweet child," Miirym murmured. "Such a thoughtful child. Will a thought be spared for me?"

"I'll come back to visit. I'm sure we'll be back."

"Such certainty, the surety of youth! All I am sure of is that today is darkness and tomorrow as well, and the day after that, forever and ever. That is truth, and that is all the life I know."

"I'll come back. I won't let you die here! I promise, I'll—"

"Darling," the wraith said, "I am already dead."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"This is real serious, huh?" Imoen asked. Like she didn't know the answer already. Like Gorion wasn't walking about with 'serious' etched into every line in his face. And those lines were looking deeper than ever. Kind of scary enough, itself. Any other day she might have sworn Gorion seemed the same as when she'd first met him, but now it looked like all those years piling up had just been waiting to bury him.

He looked _old._

And he sounded it, too, unless that was just the strain of hauling around all that seriousness. "Yes," he said. "I'm afraid it is."

Just like that, he admitted it: not blowing her off, not skirting around or nothing. And what with the hurry he was in, that admission—and the seriousness squished in it—threw her right off. She shuffled her shoes together, found her footing. "You'll take care of her, though, won't you? Keep her safe?"

"I haven't been doing that twenty years to stop now," he said, with a little bit of his old twinkle. "I've friends enough to call upon. We will not be alone."

"I'd go too, you know. Watch her back."

Gorion paused. "And I would thank you for the offer. But the safest place for you is here."

'Safe.' What kind of word was that, anyway, when assassins could sneak right into your yard and strangle you in the stables?

"Sure," said Imoen.

He gave her a distracted smile and ruffled her hair; Imoen held in a sigh. That man didn't know her at all.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Parda smiled, but his crinkled eyes were worried. "Take care, child. I wish I could promise you'd be welcomed back whenever you should wish it, but even though the sentiment is there, I..."

"It's alright," Sajantha gave her tutor a hug. "I know the rules."

The scent of old books faded as he stepped back, though his arm lingered a moment against hers. "Ulraunt's looking for you," he murmured. "Tethtoril has kept him from making any formal charges thus far, but it may be best not to linger." He pressed his lips together. "I wish—I wish it were otherwise. These goodbyes are difficult enough." She squeezed his hand.

"You're really leaving, then?" Dreppin's voice came from behind her; Sajantha turned to find her worlds overlapping—the first time her friends from the abbey had mingled with those outside it, as if the moment needed any more unreality. "Candlekeep'll be a dreary place without ye, I tell you what. Won't be the same without your music to liven the place up, I mean. But if there's any more of this sort after you—the road's a sight safer for you, I reckon."

"Aye; that's the plan, anyway." And all she'd heard of it; her father had remained rather close-mouthed thus far. Sajantha smiled and ignored the tightening in her stomach as she stared out across the gate.

Hull clapped her shoulder. "Always knew you could handle yourself. Keep an eye out for that father of yours, now."

Dreppin nodded. "Folks out there—well, they ain't all the sort you'd find on this side of the walls. Them two today—they're just the first."

Hull let out a sigh. "There you go, turning the Keep upside-down again. I'd almost thank you for the excitement, were there less worry to place on your head with it."

"I've strength enough to carry them both with me, never fear—and if not, well—you are quite welcome to keep ahold of that worry for the both of us."

"Going to be glib about it, are you?" He chuckled. "Can't say that I'm surprised. Glad you've recovered yourself a bit; that was scary business."

"Glib!" Sajantha adjusted the straps of her satchel. "I'm quite serious, you realize. I'm afraid it's back to the daily drudgery of guarding a keep in which nothing ever happens, for you. I've got all that excitement stuffed well and truly tight into my pack now, and I aim to carry it with me. And the worry is sealed up tight enough that the bottles don't even clink together!"

"Aye, it will surely be quieter without you," he sighed. "Just so you pack some caution in there, too. Sometimes I wonder if the world's gone mad. May just be up to you to shake some sense into it."

"Mad or no—I really can't wait... all these places I've read about, and I'll get to see them! I wonder where my father will have us go first?"

"Gorion didn't raise you half bad, did he?" Hull grinned. "Keep yourselves safe out there."

"And you keep everything here just the way it is!"

Fuller cleared his throat, brow knit as he frowned at the two younger men. "I'm afeared for your safety out there, Sajantha. And now, doubly so. This talk of bandits seemed a faraway thing til they show up right at the door. And now..." He rubbed his neck. "Well. Take care."

"I'll be careful. So long as you keep on taking care of everything here; the keep wouldn't get by without you."

"You could say that on any one of us, so few of us here," he said, but he was smiling.

Dreppin shifted. "Well, I—you take care of yourself, now. We'll all miss having you about, I can tell you that much true."

"All of us, yep."

"Imoen!"

Her friend gave a little wave. "Heya."

"I..." Sajantha cleared her throat. "I can't believe this is it."

"Yep."

Sajantha glanced up at the towering spires. The late afternoon light left them in shadow. "My whole life here, and it's over, just like that."

Imoen dipped her head. "Starting up a new chapter, you might say. Maybe you should think of it like that."

"Maybe I will." The smile she'd been holding wouldn't fit on her face; she let it fall. "I—I'll write to you every day, Imoen."

"Tellin' me all your grand adventures?"

"Of course! And I expect you to practice your penmanship and write back, at least occasionally."

Imoen shuffled her feet. "Aww, you know I wouldn't leave you hanging." She pulled them into a tight hug.

"I'll miss you," Sajantha whispered into her friend's neck, and Imoen squeezed her tighter before letting go.

"You'd better get going. Mister G don't like to be kept waiting."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

The crash of waves on cliffs had faded hours ago into a distant murmur, replaced by rustling trees. Her father stayed several steps ahead, his walking staff blazing a trail before them, his robes swish-swishing along the pebbled path.

Just where had all his energy come from? Sajantha's own adrenaline had worn off hours before, leaving her even weaker than the unaccustomed exercise could account for. Keeping up with her father, older though he was, had become more than a little difficult. She had barely the breath for conversation.

But he didn't want to talk. And perhaps that was just as well, for all Sajantha wished to hear was, "It will be alright," and—however she longed for it—she knew those words would not pass his lips.

He would not lie.

And if _she _were to speak, well, all she could offer was a litany of questions and fears, neither of which he seemed inclined to address. His only concern seemed to be movement: because the sun had set, and he had not stopped, as though some creatures from the Abyss flew just behind them, mounted on the swarming shadows. Because—though she stumbled and slipped on the uneven ground—he still would not slow.

And the branches that dragged and tangled in her hair were not the skeletal fingers of ghouls—they were not an assassin that reached after her and drew cold steel across her throat—but the chill of the night went far deeper than her skin, until even the breeze became a haunting breath expelled of every shadow.

"Father—" she said, because she had stumbled and she had stopped and he would not—her skirts were muddy and her shoe was caught— "Father, what's _wrong?_"

He came to a stop then, but did not look at her—his gaze turned upwards, as if the sky might hold answers that the darkened land did not. His feet brought him back to her and his eyes brought back the stars, as well; they shone out and came near to spilling free. He blinked.

"So much to say," he murmured, "and never the time for it. And now, I fear—too late." His voice wavered a bit like the thin fingers that smoothed back her hair as he knelt before her.

It must have been even more messy than usual, her tangle of curls, for the intensity with which he repeated the motion. But his gaze was somewhere else. "Get thee to the Friendly Arm." His hand stilled at last, resting on the back of her head. "I've friends there. They will look after you if I cannot."

"What do you _mean?_" she demanded, because the answer she heard in his voice was not one she could accept.

"My... my child," he murmured, his voice so full of tenderness it trembled, like the light in his eyes it flowed over. Their foreheads touched as he bowed his silver head. "Do not fight me in this."

Sajantha gripped his sleeve; the wiry arm beneath it shivered. "Never."

Her father looked up and his eyes blazed like the sun. "Run."

She shook her head—all that she could manage—only the fire in his gaze kept her from freezing completely. "Father...?"

His hand still rested upon her shoulder, but his eyes had left her. As she turned, she saw it: that storm on the horizon and the armored figures that stirred it. Were they so close, or so large? Their threat as obvious as their unsheathed weapons—they descended the hill-top, they filled the sky.

Sajantha could not move. A roar filled her ears even louder than her pounding heart.

Her father pulled her to her feet and pushed her away in one motion. "_Run, _child!_"_

A blast of energy struck her in the chest—knocked her back—and heat erupted down the length of her arm and the shoulder it stemmed from: an arrow_—afire—_enough to startle her from her stupor—

"Get out of here!" Through her pain she looked up to see a stranger wearing his face, twisting it into a terrifying expression. That was not her father, could not be—

"_RUN!"_ he bellowed and raised his hand. The spell he loosed collided with something behind her, some_one_—she heard a cry but she didn't see, didn't look back. She ran. That chill air, she gulped it, it dove right inside her filled til she choked on it—the wind tore at her hair, ripping at her very seams as if it needed more ways to reach through her—

Sajantha ran.

The hill behind her exploded with light, with bursts of magic: a flurry—a fury—of spells. Clear even from this distance, it might have set the sky afire for miles. It cut the combatants into sharp silhouettes: a giant man that towered over her father and the muscled menace of two ogres towering over them both. Every spike of that giant's armor sliced the air with a jagged precision. Horns atop his helmed head, he loomed over her father like some great demon even as the ogres fell.

Sajantha watched. She watched that figure carved of darkness itself, lit only by a barrage of her father's spells, and barely flinching from them. She watched its sword sweep down.

No.

The wind whipped. It pulled, it howled, but Sajantha could not move. It tugged out her cry, forced it free of her lips:_ "NO...!"_

The demon-man looked up.

"RUN!" said the wind—it shrieked in her ears—_run run run_.

She did not run, she flew.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mirtul 2, 1368  
Year of the Banner_

Sajantha was out here somewhere; she had to be. Just where, though, that was the real trick: these outdoors stretched on and on with a new stretch of trees behind every hill. Sajantha must have kept going, though, had just run right off to somewhere—she better have—at least that meant she'd lived to get away.

Get away from _what—_maybe thatwas the question—but whatever it was had left the landscape all charred and gutted out. Crisped earth and the stink of something almost like the burned-out oven when she forgot to clean out the bottom of it, all thick and bitter, it hung in the air. Magic, and a terrific battle it must have been, to leave the land almost leveled. Rings of fire had parched the grass around right back to dirt; dry rock as dead as the three bodies atop it.

Gorion had taken two of them brutes with him, then, ten-foot-tall ogres roasted up like giant steaks. But whoever else had been there, wasn't a single sign. Not that Imoen would have known what to look for. Sajantha, she was all that mattered now. Somewhere out here. Somewhere.

But_ where? _The sun had risen, and Sajantha, in true stubborn fashion, did not magically appear. Imoen's anxiety lapped at her like the tide licking up the cliffs—in the daylight, panic seemed a more distant thing, but every moment that passed without any sign of her friend allowed it to trickle back in, til it built up in her throat and threatened to overflow: "Sajantha!" she cried out.

The woods stayed quiet. More so than usual; stomping through as she was without a care had probably sent all the local residents scurrying far off. The small ones, anyway. Imoen didn't want to think of what kind of creatures might be drawn to _investigate_ instead, but so long as something else was out here, something to destroy this eerie bubble of silence, prove she wasn't so alone after all...

_ "Sajantha!"_

Just like that—like an answer to her wish—the waist-high plants at her side began to churn. And, just like in the tales, a wish she didn't want so much, afterward. Like a djinni had conjured it up just for her, a figure burst free of the bushes. Too fast to see much past a blur, it tore up ground and grass, sending a dusting of gravel flying as it ran on all fours straight toward her. Spittle flew from a wide-open mouth, bushy black hair tangled with tree leaves—either bloodthirsty or just plain crazy—

Imoen backed up. Not fast enough, it'd be on her any second—she didn't have time to get out her bow, much less nock an arrow through it—

Her hand darted for the wand at her waist, instead. A blast of magic shot free, a whiff of smoke and then a thud; on the other side of the fog, a pale body curled up around the smoking hole in its chest. It twitched and fell still.

She took a step towards it. It almost looked like a person. Like an emaciated, blue-skinned person with too-big teeth, and so much hair it was falling out in patches.

She snapped the wand back to her belt, only fumbling it a little bit. And took out her bow. Nocked and ready. Maybe there'd be another of them things. Whatever it was. Maybe Sajantha would know.

"Sajantha!" she cried out. What else could she do? "Where are you?"

And then, by the luck of a single god or all of them, Imoen pretty much tripped right over her. "Oh—oh! There you are!" Imoen steadied her hands on her legs as she leaned over, panting. "I'm so glad I found you!" Glad didn't cover it, this numbing relief that drained out the last of her energy. Imoen fell to her knees, which brought them about eye-level. "What are you doing under there, you goon?"

Sajantha sat hunched under a bush with just enough room to let her curl up without its branches digging into her. Until she flinched back with a cry, tangling them all up together. "I-Imoen!" She gripped her chest. "I..."

"You're hurt!" Blood on her burned shirt and a wound beneath it— "We'd better see you off to a healer, straightaway." Not like there was anything out here—not for miles—but Imoen glanced around.

"Imoen," Sajantha choked, "_Imoen._" Her eyes, wide and green as the ground around them, opened even wider. _"_He's—my father, he's—" And Sajantha's horror reached out, pulling Imoen with it: a dark sea cresting right over her, with waves enough to pound her head beneath it—

"I... I know," she cut Sajantha off, and her friend swallowed like she was glad not to have to form the words herself, retreating back behind that curtain of numb confusion.

And in that instant, all of Imoen's relief flattened, stretched thin and stomped into the ground. Or buried under it. Because Gorion was dead. Sajantha's _father_. Sajantha's.

Imoen cleared her throat, sinking to her heels. "I saw him." And she'd seen that note again, with no more sense to offer on a second reading. No more help. _A__ moving target is much harder to hit. _But not hard enough."I kinda figured something bad might happen to you out here." Imoen bit her lip. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Sajantha."

Sajantha gripped Imoen's arm. "But, you—you're stuck out here too, now!" Her hand shook, but she didn't let go.

Imoen had to smile a little bit as she reached back for Sajantha's hand. "Don't think I'm gonna let you wander around out here all alone. Never let a friend down, no sir!" She pulled them both to their feet, and Sajantha winced and stumbled, but didn't fight it; their hands stayed locked together.

"I'll stick with you, Sajantha," she promised. Imoen tried to reflect her friend's own beaming sincerity back at her, had to dig deep inside her to everything that ever linked them and tried to let it pass between their twined fingers.

Sajantha stared down at their joined hands, and her lips moved, like she was going to maybe speak, maybe even smile a little bit. Imoen squeezed her hand, squeezed it tight. "Til you say otherwise, I will."

"We should go back," Sajantha said, breaking that silence hanging over them, the silence heavy enough that simple small talk couldn't come close to lifting. "I should go back to him." But it was 'should,' not 'must,' and Imoen understood that even if Sajantha didn't. _Gorion. _She didn't need to see that.

"He's a day behind," said Imoen, because you could travel distance but not time, and Gorion was in yesterday. He would be, forever.

Sajantha might have seen it happen, but couldn't the aftermath be just as bad? Seeing in daylight what those shadows had been kind enough to obscure. And as scary as it might've been to watch that devil man swinging his sword, how much worse was it to look down at a person that wasn't a person anymore? A Gorion-suit discarded on the ground, all empty and mangled. His body had crumpled like the loose robes all bunched around him. It was perverse, with the glare of the sun staring down without pity overhead, lighting up that scene with none of the dignity such a man was due.

"There's nothing there to see. That ain't... that's just not him no longer." Imoen shouldn't have left him there like that, though. He didn't deserve that.

She could think that, now. She could think it, now that Sajantha was safe enough at her side and she wasn't afraid her next step would trip over a bloody bundle of Sajantha-clothes filled with a friend.

"I want to go back."

Sajantha's head bent against the breeze; she only squinted a little, like it was the wind and not something else bothering at her eyes. "No, you don't," Imoen told her, and Sajantha bit her lip and looked away.

"I need to."

But did she—did she _really?_ Would it take staring at that bloody broken body to drive the truth home? Sajantha didn't need to see that; she didn't need the kind of nightmare that hung behind Imoen's eye: the picture of this tall metal-horned man that Sajantha had sketched out in a whisper but wouldn't speak of again.

She didn't need to see just what he had done.

The sun would be shining high over that scene, those ogres' charred bones bleaching white, and soon enough Gorion's, too. Not for all the luck in the world would Imoen have pressed her friend back there.

"You can't," said Imoen, "we can't go back." Not to Candlekeep. Not to yesterday. And not to Gorion, where who knew if that monster-man crept in wait?

The silence returned to fill the space between them. Sajantha shook herself a little, like she was trying to shrug it right off her shoulders: "Then... where are we going?" she asked. "If we can't go back—where are we going to?"

They'd been walking, ever-eastward—to the main trade way; they had to cross it sometime. And after that, well... who knew? They'd take it one step at a time.

* * *

The threat of night took all the beauty out of the sunset. Colors streaked right through the sky, pretty pinks deepening.

Sajantha didn't look like she were thinking much of anything, all slumped and still-dazed, or maybe her mind had just turned so inward she didn't see much outside it. Didn't see that it would be dark soon. Good, maybe. Maybe she wouldn't be thinking that those colors in the sky looked an awful lot like blood.

"We can stop here," Imoen offered, though there was enough light still to see by, that light that bathed the world in rose.

"Yesterday," Sajantha said, the first thing she'd spoken in hours. Imoen jerked her head around, jarred right out of her own thoughts. Sajantha drew in a breath and kept walking, kept talking: "Yesterday morning I was sitting in the library with him and we were trying to figure out how to... how to make spindle-disks." She made a little sound so choked it couldn't be a sob or a laugh, either one.

Imoen's throat closed up like it didn't want to talk, like it agreed with her mind and couldn't consider a single word fit for speaking. Sajantha was staring up at her with eyes that looked more than a little red in the lighting, eyes open a little too wide—

"Imoen..." she whispered, voice breaking, all of her falling apart at once as she sank to the ground, and Imoen realized she didn't have to say anything after all. She just reached back and held on as Sajantha clung to her and cried.

* * *

Imoen's stomach growled, like a tiny version of that blue monster: just as angry, and just as impossible to ignore. She hadn't packed much in the way of food. Some snacks, sure, but those sweet cream rolls just didn't sound so good now as they had back on Winthrop's shelf.

It had left room to pack more interesting things, counting on Gorion to provide the food. Such a practical man, 'course he'd have the details ironed out: everything prepared, a plan for everything. She had thought.

Imoen grimaced at the sticky bun, unpeeling it from paper that didn't want to give it up. She should have done a better job wrapping it. She should have _wrapped _it. That paper—

Her stomach dropped. That paper was the very same letter of Gorion's what had started this whole thing, back before cream filling stuck it to the cover of his old tome. The weight of Sajantha's silence had been heavier than anything else she lugged around; Imoen had managed to forget all that she was carrying. Some letters. Some gold pieces. Gorion's old ring... and his spellbook. 'Liberating them', she might have called it, once, but that didn't sit right. Grave-robbing sounded closer.

She swallowed, hurrying to cover the open flap, to close her pack up again—but Sajantha wasn't even looking, anyway.

Imoen cleared her throat, and the other girl stirred. "Sticky buns, or sticky buns?"

Sajantha's lips twitched, as though in reflex. "That's all you brought?"

Imoen let the flap fall closed. "Well. I brought us _something_ we could eat, at least."

Sajantha looked away. Bent so that the harp case nestled under her chin, she almost cradled the instrument as her body curled around it. "I'm not hungry."

* * *

"Where are we going?"

"Friendly Arm, right?" Imoen answered before she remembered she wasn't supposed to know that.

Not that Sajantha noticed. "That's... it's off the tradeway, right?"

Imoen nodded. "Yep, a ways east of here. We just keep the sun at our backs til we step onto it."

Sajantha still clutched the harp in her arms, holding it like a shield she didn't know how to use. "What do you know about navigation?"

"What do you know 'bout what I know?" Imoen grinned, but her tease fell flat. She shook her head. "Don't even need to. After that, though, north. Good enough."

"How long?"

"To the road? Couple days, I guess. Hey, you've got a map in there, don't ya?"

One of Sajantha's hands stretched idly towards her pack. "Oh. That's right. The guidebook." Her fumbling turned into a stumbling; with a single mis-step, the harp case jumped right out of her arms.

It hit the ground, bouncing back up with a snap and a crack. They both watched it a moment, frozen, before Sajantha dove after it, skirts flying. She knelt before it.

"Is it alright?"

The case snapped shut, little latches closing fast. "Yes." And Sajantha's mouth snapped shut just as tight.

"Might be safer strapping it to your back..."

Sajantha's movements were jerky as she did just that. "Yes."

Imoen rubbed her arms. "Well, um. Let's see that guidebook. Maybe I can figure out where we are. Keep an eye out, would you?"

* * *

So it was Imoen's turn to sit there staring at a book. Kinda backwards, but then, everything else had turned upside-down lately. She stifled a yawn as she leaned back into the tree. Volo sure knew how to run his mouth off; this thing was for tourists, really, nothing so helpful as an atlas would have been. Who cared what kind of ales they served at—

A soft crunch-squish behind her and Imoen turned her head just in time to avoid it getting chopped off.

"AIEEEEE!" A blur of something fast and shining swung right for her, glanced off her leather bracer as she threw an arm up, ducking back. Enough of a slope to the ground that she turned her momentum into a back-roll, clearing a few more feet of space. Better to deal with dizziness than a sword through her head. She had her own blade out, crouching low as the creature shot towards her. Couldn't be more than three-feet tall, but it didn't hesitate a second, just barreled right through, dagger swiping the air.

Damn thing was everywhere at once; Imoen ducked one swing to dart into the next. Enough little wounds like this and she'd be down—it was all she could do to hold it off. Couldn't hardly bend over it to land a blow, though, without it going right for her gut. She kicked out, sent it reeling back a step. A fistful of dirt chucked in its face, and its hands went right for its eyes. Even just that second was enough for her to close the distance. Her blade sunk right through its shoulder, down deep.

She gripped her arm, the shirt already wet and warm. With the adrenaline wore off, she felt a lot more than that; a burst of pain made her grit her teeth. "Sajantha!" she screamed. Oh—oh, gods. Where had that girl gone to? Imoen sprinted around the tree. Better she not be lying there, full of little dagger-holes. Her heart was in her throat. "Sajantha!"

Her friend was standing there, no red on her but for the embroidery of her dress. Not moving, just standing there, with her fingers twisted tight around her amulet. Imoen whirled around, glanced about, but there weren't nothing else to explain the girl's slack face.

"What the _hells! _Sajantha—what the _hells. _That thing, it almost—it could have—" Imoen broke off, moved by Sajantha's blank face to shake her. "Where are you? _Who _are you?" Imoen grabbed her shoulders, and Sajantha's eyes at last met her own. "Did you forget? You're Gorion's daughter. His child. Everyone says you're just like him. You think he'd stand around with his head half-empty, waiting for someone to come along and spill out the rest of his brains?" So close to how Imoen had found him, though, wasn't it; the words tasted bitter on her tongue.

Sajantha jerked back. "What do you mean—what am I supposed to do? You think he'd want for me to—to avenge him?" Her eyes darted towards the fallen creature. "To go around killing things?"

"For the gods' sorry sakes, he wouldn't want you floundering about like a ninny, that's for sure! Where's your smarts? Your spark? We coulda been _killed._"

Sajantha shuddered, shaking Imoen's hand from her arm. She glared, all that anger building up, gathering interest, and nowhere to spend it. But her eyes were sharp and fierce and bright. Awake.

"I can't watch both our backs. Not all the time." Imoen's voice was quiet. "You've got to be here, too."

The color drained from her friend's face, the anger right with it. "I'm—I'm sorry." Sajantha cupped her hand over her mouth. "So sorry, Imoen. I don't know what I'd do without you."At least there was something behind those misty eyes now, something bright. "I'll try," she said. "I'll try."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Lights blazed a course across the black sky like some celestial map. The ground below became much harder to navigate in darkness. Sajantha blinked, and it set the stars into a dancing blur.

The world waited before them, spread out overhead: an empty canvas on which to write their own future. Stories lived up there, woven between those stars. When enough threads connected them, they became figures, came to life. As Sajantha stared up into the night sky, she could not help but feel it was staring back.

Stories, just stories, but there _were_ eyes up there. It was too much work to see that cluster of stars as anything more than streaks in the sky, gentle crescents—but to the west, the Eyes of the Watching Woman would wait, perpetually pointing home. Only there _was_ no home, not now, not there; she should not look back like something more than memory remained for her.

Maybe the Watching Woman wept. Maybe she wept, and her great tears became the ocean they had left behind. And how much else had she left behind?

_Run, child—_

Sajantha bit her lip as she curled onto her side. To her right lay Imoen. Perhaps her friend was posed likewise, a crescent curve; back to back, perhaps they two mirrored the Eyes behind them.

Sajantha closed her own eyes. She should not look back. No matter the stars, this darkness was far too empty. Would tomorrow's night prove darker still—was the sliver of moon in wane or was it waxing? She had paid so little attention to its cycle before. A life indoors had kept all her journeys between the pages of books, and yet it had never seemed confining.

Here, in the open air, she felt far too small, like that darkness might grow and swallow her.

"Tell me a story." The words were familiar, as was Imoen's drowsing voice. Any excuse to stay up at little later—though now, no guardians remained to see them to bed.

Sajantha took in a breath, night air cool on her tongue. Her voice obliged, even as her mind struggled to seize upon a tale to tell; she could not cast the net of her thoughts very far. "Once upon a time, in a small village by the sea... there was a girl."

Imoen snuggled into her blanket. "What was she like?"

"She was... she was very sad."

"Why?"

Sajantha's eyes drifted upward. "Because... she was different. From everyone. She... had great black wings in place of arms—like a shroud, they wrapped 'round her when she lowered them."

"How come?"

"It was the hex of a Rom. Or... a sin of her ancestors, perhaps, long ago. It was a jealous witch, an evil stepmother—it was the punishment of the divine; she was born so accursed." Sajantha shrugged in the darkness, even though Imoen couldn't see her. "It doesn't matter. That's who she was. She lived with it all her life."

"What did she look like?" After so many years, so many tales, Sajantha no longer registered Imoen's interruptions; they wove into and became a part of the story, they directed her as she gathered its threads together.

"Her hair was long, black as a raven's wing, her eyes a black as solid as any bird's. She had a face so beautiful it would set you to weep to look upon her, but none would bear to look at her, at those deep, dark eyes.

"She lived with wings instead of hands, feathers for fingers. Ungainly things—she could not turn without knocking into something—so her movements became slow, deliberate, til she plodded like a duck. She could hold nothing close. She couldn't do _anything_, always relying on others to provide for her, even to feed her. Her neighbors mocked her behind her back, and to her face they stared and whispered, but none would ever speak with her."

"Did she frighten them?"

"Aye. When she spoke, it was with the voice of a bird. Her speech was harsh and stilted, cawing and croaking, and the people could not stand to listen; it so grated on their ears. Yet not even the birds could understand her: she had their voice, but her tongue was only human; it spoke only human words.

"And her wings, they were not magic, to lift her—she was far too heavy, her body unsuited for flight. She watched her feathered kin with envy in her black eyes, but the birds lent her none of their grace, their speech. They soared high above and left her watching, still and silent, from the ground.

"She croaked to the gods in her broken bird voice, 'Why has such a fate befallen me? I am of neither world; none will have me. What am I? What purpose do I serve?'"

"What did the gods say?"

"The gods... they were as quiet as the rolling ocean—a rush of water, a hushed song, and she thought she might make out words in the whispers of the waves if only she could listen long enough.

"And so she tried. She waited on her rocky perch as the day passed by, and through that night—then another day, another night—every hour thinking it had been enough, that the gods might at last take pity on her. She waited, til her muscles felt like stones and her bones felt like water, til her mouth was dry as the sands around her: she waited and did not move. The tide came in, and left again. Her ears strained for meaning beneath its steady lullaby. Her eyes dragged, but she would not sleep, afraid she would miss the answer when it came.

"The sun disappeared behind clouds, and hid beyond the heart of night. But she knew it would return as it ever did, and that certainty was enough to stay her. Dawn crept in from behind, so it was only the sounds it beckoned forth that stirred her. Familiar, croaking whispers—but it was only the birds of the coast as they fluttered down to her side. Talking amongst themselves in a language she could not follow, they began to peck at the sand around her—and when she still did not move, they pecked at the girl herself.

"'I will die here,' she realized, 'and even still know nothing.' In despair, she moved at last, sweeping her arm to drive the scavengers away. Yet it was no arm she wielded but a great wing—so very heavy and cumbersome that the birds dodged it easily.

"'I never asked to be this way... I never had a choice,' the girl said in her croaking bird-voice as she let her feathered limb fall once more. The sound of her raspy words frightened the birds, and they scattered only then, leaving her kneeling in the sand. Between the beat of their wings and the beat of her heart she thought she could hear a reply: 'And if you were given a choice,' said the whisper in the wind, the ocean's sigh, 'What would you choose? To share the skies with the birds and leave your humanity behind and below you, or live as one of the humans who rejected you?'"

"And? What did the girl say?"

"She..." Sajantha's own mouth was dry; she cleared her throat. "She wept. Only the sound of her cries hurt her own ears as well, and she lifted her hands to smother the volume of it. But wings were not made for catching tears, and bird-eyes were not made for crying them. She stared out into her black cocoon, her prison of feathers—and for all that she hated the gods for putting her here, she hated her form even more.

"_Would the humans accept me at last?_ she wondered from within her feathered shroud. _Would I be welcomed home? _

"'Would you cut off your wings to find out?' The gods responded together, a single voice welling from deep inside her. 'Would you hold your tongue silent forevermore?'"

_Silence. _The waves whispered no assurance here, not so far allowed the night's stillness to press in a moment longer, dragging her drifting eyes from the west as a voice called her back.

"So—what did she do?" Imoen had sat up, was leaning forward. "What happened to her?"

"I... I don't know," Sajantha admitted. "How would you cut off your wings when you have no hands?"

Imoen digested that a moment. Evidently not finding it to her taste, she spit out a disbelieving, choked sort of sound. "I don't know whether to cry or to hit you, Sajantha! That's a horrible story."

"Yeah." Sajantha tipped her head back against the ground with a sigh, "I guess it is."

Imoen fell quiet. "Maybe all she needed was a friend," she said after a moment. "Would that have broken the curse?"

Sajantha tilted her face to look at the other girl. It must have been her elven vision that lit up Imoen so brightly in the dark. Her eyes shone—dancing stars. "Maybe." She hesitated before reaching through the shadows between them, but even in the darkness, Imoen's hand found her own.


	3. Chapter 3

Yelps and yowls plucked her from her dreams; Sajantha's eyes shot open to see a writhing mass of flesh and fury, nearing in numbers that blotted out the stars with black glittering eyes.

"Where are you?" Imoen's voice cut through the air somewhere to her right. "I can't—" Her dagger flashed out, swiped once through the air before she drew back, unsure where to strike.

Moonlight spilled through the clouds, for a moment revealing more than her night-sight: a rapid-fire flash of gaping wet mouths, teeth just as sharp—just as hungry—as their swords.

A chill took hold in her chest, in her fingers, but her eyes burned.

"I can't _see!"_ Imoen cried.

_"Itmen mitne,"_ Sajantha whispered, the spell caught in her numb lips, _"itmen mitne!"_

A flare of light exploded outward, a heat that sent her hands flying back to protect her face. The air filled with howls, jabbering screams, as if the magic had struck the monsters directly. Sajantha peeked out beneath her arm.

The light blazed around them, a second sun hovering bright. Their attackers scampered off, wails ringing off the trees as they fled.

Imoen blinked, rubbing at her eyes. "Wow! What was that? They sure took off in a hurry."

"It was just a light spell. They're nocturnal, after all." They must have been, for it to startle them so. "Are you alright?"

"Lucky," Imoen said, patting down her armor. "They got at the leathers, maybe, but not much past." She shook her head. "Better padding than some frilly skirts. You okay? I ain't got any healing potions left."

"I hardly expected to dress for battle." Sajantha touched her shoulder. She hadn't looked at it since the healing potions had done their work, but they'd certainly not done much for her clothing. The creatures hadn't a chance to do much to it, either. _Lucky_. She hugged her arms.

Imoen bent down, swinging upright with a larger blade in her hands—a sword. She belted it opposite her dagger, where its edge brushed against her pantleg as she took a couple steps, shimmying her hips a bit. "My balance is all off," she muttered.

"Oughtn't you have a scabbard for it? Isn't it dangerous, swinging around like that?"

Imoen gripped the hilt. Though it swayed, the blade stayed belted on. "Seems more dangerous not to have one, don't it?"

Sajantha shrugged, shaking her head, but more than her hair brushed against her cheek: like an insect biting, and one upon her arm—Imoen felt it, too; they glanced up to watch a shimmer of fiery leaves falling around them, dropping from the sky while the blazing globe burned out: their flares of light hit the ground in bursts of smoke and sparks.

Imoen scrambled to stomp them down with her boot. "Ground's still wet, at least. Could have started a fire, there, ruined your pretty dress."

Not so pretty now, her cream-colored dress flickered a sickly shade in the fading light: the shadows made it impossible to distinguish the stains of grass from those of blood. There was a cantrip for that.

Sajantha blotted out the embers fallen upon her shoulder, brushed them from her arm. A cantrip for cleaning, though—with her magic—she could find herself the one afire. "What?"

Imoen's hands were on her hips. "What if them things come back? Ain't we better get moving? If they're nocturnal, we won't be safe til day breaks."

Wind rustled through the trees, set the leaves to whispering, set Sajantha to shivering.

Imoen gave the disintegrating magic-light one last look. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

It was not well into the day, hardly mornbright, but after the events of the day before (don't think about it don't think about it),a few hours' sleep was not nearly enough. Their hurried pace had slowed to a shuffle.

They met a man midmorn—a once-overfed man stretched thin, as though his skin fit as well as his loose clothes. Bright and gaudy and stained from wear and travel, they matched his weathered face as well as they matched the surroundings. He seemed as out of place as they.

"Hail, friends! You're traveling from Candlekeep, then, I expect?" He looked between them for confirmation. "Not much else in that direction but the sea."

Sajantha's heart thudded loud in the sudden silence, and Imoen glanced a quick look at her before replying. "We're two sea hags fresh from the Sea of Swords!" she said with an impressive growl. "It's our first steps onto dry land, sure enough, and we're just lookin' fer some tasty samplers. Arrrrg!"

A smile threatened to fill his once-wide cheeks. "Get a little spooked out there? Can't say as I blame you. The roads hereabouts aren't exactly safe, even when times were good."

"Gibberlings," murmured Sajantha. In the night, they had been monsters—their pale, writhing bodies and glinting teeth the stuff of nightmares—but day shed all kinds of light, once her rational mind came to bear. Nocturnal, indeed, their threat would not follow into the sunlight.

Imoen straightened. "Not spooked, not even! We killed them and we'll kill you too, you try anything!"

The man took a step back, raising his palms. "You've nothing to fear from me, though there's some on these roads you'd best be wary of."

Imoen's hand hadn't left her hilt. "But not you?"

"Nay, I'm a humble hermit. I was once a merchant, though the iron crisis put me out of business. And I won't be the last you'll hear that story from, if you're traveling south."

"We're north, actually," Sajantha said, tilting her head. "The Friendly Arm." Imoen crossed her arms.

"Then luck be with you on your journey, ladies. I've little else to offer besides good will, and advice: make friends where you can, as traveling alone is almost certain death." He nodded at them both.

"Queer fellow," Imoen said, giving the man's back another wary glance as he shuffled off. She shook her head. "You shouldn't pass around our business like that. He could have been trouble; how do you know?"

"He's not the one we ought fear, as he said. He was telling the truth."

"You can tell that, huh? Is that some of your magic?"

Sajantha gave a half-shrug. If she encountered that demon-man again, there'd be no mistaking it.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

It took Imoen a lot longer to spot whatever spark of fire Sajantha had them scrambling after. Just how much sharper were elven eyes, anyway? The night had fallen pretty fast; about candleglass, now, and as it got darker, this campfire should've been easier to see by contrast.

"It's not much farther," Sajantha said. Maybe she meant it, this time—if she wasn't still misjudging the distance—could be a whole 'nother hour.

Would it even be worth it? Maybe these travelers had food to share, maybe they didn't, but Imoen was ready to collapse. Those sweet rolls had done run out midday, and Gorion hadn't packed nothing in the way of foodstuffs, either. Maybe he meant to conjure them food with magic. Maybe he hadn't thought that far at all.

Though here was the campfire at last, tucked in a copse of trees to keep it from all but the sharpest eyes. But it didn't exactly keep _them_ from anybody else's.

"Ho! Declare yerselves or defend yerselves!"

Sajantha faltered with one foot stepping out; her arms came up. "We hold our hands outstretched with peace and not steel," she called. "Hail, for a place at your fire, and perchance—a meal?"

A mop of dark hair bounced into view over a childlike face, small, white teeth bared. "If it's peace ye be claimin', then ye'd best be maintainin' for I won't stick to it all by meself." The small man stared up at them with a scowl twice his size. "Aye, me wits be as sharp as yours and me blade even sharper—and hungry, besides. That's yer warning, there, girlie, and ye only get the one." There came the unmistakable scrape of a sword back to its sheath as he muttered, "It's me sword gets fed otherwise."

A halfling! Imoen had met but a few of them out around the keep, and those folk just always had cheerful personalities to match their cherub cheeks.

On the other side of the campfire, another head came into view—this one attached to a middle-aged man wearing a yawn that looked to swallow his face. "Oh, come now, Monty," his companion said with a sleepy smile, "lighten up! Must you be so _moody_ all the time?"

The halfling's glare didn't go away a bit.

"That charming fellow is Montaron," the man said, looking up from the ground where he gathered blades of grass. He held two up for inspection. "And I... am Xzar." He squinted through the fire-smoke. "Why, these are only children wandering the wilderness!" The grass fell from his hand as he gave them a closer look. "Surely they must be none too bright to be traveling these roads..." He turned towards the halfling. "But that's no reason to threaten them."

Montaron grunted.

"Roads?" Imoen said, with a cough-kind-of-laugh. "We ain't stumbled upon a road quite yet. You just point the way to one, we'll be right outta your hair."

"Oh!" Xzar's own laugh bubbled out a lot smoother. "There's no need for that, now, not at all. Why, my hair might even enjoy the company. Rather lonely with only my head sometimes, 'tis true."

"Uh, right, then." Imoen gave Sajantha's shoulder a bump as she took a step back. "We're, um—we're real sorry to bother you folks. Just gonna keep moving, now—"

"You do not trust us?"

"I'll not be insulted by these whelps!"

"Now, Montaron, had I just been attacked, I might be leery as well."

Imoen bit her lip. They knew—but just what did they know? This wasn't going so good, not at all. Let Sajantha handle the talking, then: words might serve them better than blades, and neither of Imoen's would do much good here. She gave Sajantha a little nudge.

"Have you... encountered anyone else out here?" Sajantha asked, clearing her throat. "Anyone at all?"

"No one of note; you may rest easier."

"We're expecting friends," Sajantha added. "It may be that they're ahead of us."

Xzar cocked his head. "Did I say you were running from something?" But he guessed. He _knew._

Sajantha's fingers went for her amulet, twisting it. "Should we expect trouble?"

The two men shared a glance. "Only if we ought," said Xzar.

"But yer lookin' out for friends, ye say. Not trouble. Which do ye think you've found?"

Imoen's back was tense, stick-straight as she stood waiting.

"I would hope for the former and prepare for the latter."

The halfling returned his attention to sharpening his sword. Good enough an answer, for his eyes didn't pierce half so sharp. "We've not the time to get into yer problems, girlies. You keep 'em to yourself. We've a task far larger."

"Just what're the two of you doing out here, anyway?" Imoen asked.

Montaron didn't look up. "Not brandishin' our business to every passing stranger." His blade rasped against the whetstone.

"We travel to Nashkel," Xzar explained, like he hadn't heard Montaron. Or was trying to bait him. Could go either way; the halfling grit his teeth.

"Nashkel? That's all the way down in Amn, ain't it?"

"Indeed it is, child, though nothing so remarkable for that. 'Tis the center of the region's iron mines. You've heard of the Iron Crisis, I'm sure?"

"Sure." That ol' hermit had said a piece on it. And hadn't there been a bit of tonguework about the keep, even before? Not too many troubles made it through Candlekeep's doors, but enough travelers did, all hauling tales with them.

"It may be the source of the problem can be found there; we go to investigate." He cocked his head. "And what of you? It is rude not to introduce yourselves."

Sajantha leaned forward before Imoen could stop her. "My name is Sajantha." But didn't neither of the two so much as blink, like they didn't know of her—of her bounty. Imoen let out the breath she'd been holding. "And this is Imoen."

Xzar smiled. He didn't look a monk, for all that he wore the same clothes most of the Avowed trotted around in: same color, even, those grass-green robes. A mage, then? And the halfling, scruffy as he looked, was some kind of dangerous, too. Never mind that blade of his. Imoen swallowed.

At her side, Sajantha reached out, handing back a bottle. "Thank you."

"What was that?" Imoen spun towards her.

Sajantha wiped her mouth. "It was just a healing potion. I know what a healing potion looks like."

Xzar nodded. "And I'll not even hold you in debt, though your conscience knows otherwise."

Montaron's eyes glittered. "Just like all good people."

Imoen crossed her arms. Looked like she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, either.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

It was certainly the halfling whom had spotted them, he of the night-eyes. With his back to the fire, he did not cease scanning the woods around them, even as the rest of the group relaxed. In the darkness, it was impossible to see the individual leaves blown by the wind; the entire treeline seemed to ripple in shadow.

Montaron caught her stare, keen gaze sharp in the moonlight. "I hate the woods," he muttered. Rather redundant, with that glare of his.

"And why not!" Xzar agreed. "They will not sit still—oh, no. The trees move." He sat in a slouch, holding his arms close to hug his knees, though he unfolded a bit to peer out. "Do you not see it?" His eyes darted around, only to narrow in on Imoen, beside him, with an unsettling intensity.

Imoen gave him an uneasy look. "See what?"

"You can't see it, either? Perhaps it is only the elf-kind that do." Xzar tipped his chin against his folded arms. "I wanted infravision like the elves," he sighed. His foot tapped in time to his nodding head. "But 'tis more than just taking their eyes..."

Imoen made a little giggle, a half-giggle she bit off as she realized he might not be joking.

A stick hit him in the side of the face. Xzar jerked, blinking, nearly unseating himself.

"Rein it in, wizard!" Montaron growled. "I canna stand the way your senses flit about."

Xzar stood up, the twig in one hand, the other hand against his mouth. "The trees move!" he giggled, as he took a few steps away. He launched the stick into the air, hair tumbling back down his shoulders as he stared up. "They move!"

"Is he a bit... touched?" Sajantha whispered, pointing to her head.

"_Mad_," said Imoen. "You don't got to tone it down, none; he's plumb crazy."

Montaron scowled at them both. "He's a mage. Ye ever meet one that wasn't a bit off? He's useful enough if I don't be strangling him in his sleep before. Magic has its uses, if only just."

"That one's a meanie, Monty," Xzar complained, pitching his voice to a whine, loud enough that it trailed over his shoulder as he slouched with his back to them. "Not a nice child at all!"

Montaron let out a hiss between clenched teeth. "Now you've gone and set him off! Blasted mage will blither for hours."

Xzar's narrow shoulder blades stuck out as he hunched away from them, crossing his arms.

Sajantha approached him slowly, stopping well short of his side. "I've a song for you," she told him, and waited til he peered up before kneeling beside him. "Would you like to hear it?" One eye peeked out through his folded arms, watching while she unstrapped her harp.

_ "Once upon a night long past, 'round a fire such as ours,  
Drink and words were being shared beneath the sheltering stars.  
When beasts of legend roamed the skies, their passage churning clouds,  
and the wind's whisper whistled by, the only passing sound—  
There comes a time in middark's rest, when no breath nor breeze may stir,  
And all the world waits, breath-baited, for any sound upon the air.  
A tale not told, but wisdom shared, for all of wit to partake:  
Raise not thy voice in anger, lest the sleeping dragon wake."_

Xzar searched her eyes. "Angry," he whispered, "or mad?" Fingers dug into her wrist as he leaned forward, his grip tightening. "Those the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad."

And just as suddenly did he release her. Sajantha drew back her arm, sitting back with a lurch.

He started to laugh, though no mirth filled his eyes. "Mad," he said, "_mad._"

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"I think he's a necromancer."

"What?"

"That there mage, I got a look in his pack. Some weird spell components, I'm telling you!" What else might those tiny skulls be for? Not something to mess with, either way.

Sajantha's eyebrows knit together. "What do you mean?"

"I mean him being crazy ain't got to be our biggest worry! He's got some kind of dark magic, and no mistaking. Mayhap it's what drove him mad."

Sajantha rubbed her wrist. "I feel sorry for him."

"You—" Imoen sighed. "You would!" She shook her head. "Now ain't the time to be like that. We just gotta keep 'em off-balance. If they don't know what to think, they won't try anything." Imoen took her by the shoulders. "Look, I... I know you're scared. But we can't let them get to us. C'mon," she said, "it'll be just like the stories. You can be the famous bard—Storm Silverhand! Sajantha Silvertongue. Spin 'em a yarn and leave 'em tied-n-trumped. They won't know what hit 'em, you turn it up. I know you can do it." Imoen smiled. "I believe in you."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Sajantha took in a breath. "Gentlemen!" she cried. The wind snapped back her cloak and sent her curls springing across her face. It carried her voice to the drowsing men.

"We have witnessed with our own eyes—in these very woods before you—gibberlings amass, untold swarms that descend like an avalanche upon sleepers and tear them to pieces. But such is not even the largest danger we face. For indeed, in these same woods, it is said lurk direwolves most... dire. These beasts favor stealth above all, and wait for the unsuspecting to provide their soft backs to spring upon them and feast.

"It is luck that we four have passed through thus far with nary a scratch, for truthfully, even a bite from these mad beasts could have devastating results..." she dropped her voice. "_Werewolves_ are whispered of in these dark woods. Four sets of eyes are better than two—we would be willing to double your chances in this rush to civilization—what say you? You head south, we north, though the Tradeway is still a day's journey off. Will you lend your strength to our numbers so that we might emerge from these wilds with all our pieces intact?" Hands upon her hips, she stared them down. "The wolf preys on the unwary, solitude its ally. Shall we be yours, to thwart them?"

The two men shared a look. Xzar rubbed his hands together. "Wolves, you say? Truly, I have heard their baying these last nights; it sets a shiver upon my spine. Nasty, nasty beasts." He nodded to himself. "We've precious little time, but it may be best to travel accompanied..."

Montaron's gaze was far more penetrating. "Aye, we'll go wit ye. We'll march ye right up into the Arm itself, as you wish it. But you'll owe us for our time."

Sajantha inclined her head. "And for the meal. I understand." She lifted up her chin. "Just like all good people."

The halfling cracked a smile.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

So now they had an escort up to the inn; things were looking up. Or maybe they would be, if Imoen wasn't keeping her eyes stuck so close to home. Having someone else to keep watch left Imoen an eye free to for their two new companions more than the surroundings. Couple odd ducks, those two.

Didn't seem to bother Sajantha, none, though; she'd just retreated right back into her book, several paces behind everyone else. Imoen had to keep slowing down to make sure she didn't fall too far back.

"Put that thing down," Imoen said at last, giving her friend enough of a startle that Sajantha barely caught herself from tripping. Her grip on the book became protective.

"Walking around like that..." Imoen shook her head. "You better watch that book doesn't snap shut on your nose when you step into a tree!"

"I'm doing just fine."

"Yeah? Whyn't you tell me what's so great in there, then."

"There's lots of things. Did you know about the great conjurer Ulcaster—"

"How 'bout the Friendly Arm? What's ol' Volo got to say about that?"

"Oh!" Sajantha shuffled through a few pages. "It's only been an inn some twenty seasons, actually; before that, it was the stronghold of an evil undead priest of Bhaal."

"No way!" That _was_ pretty interesting.

"That's what it says. The Mirrorshades re-purposed it into an inn after clearing out all the worshipers."

Huh. "Bhaal—the old, dead god of murder? Yeah, just the sort of place I'd set up an inn, why not."

* * *

Gorion killed two of them things. Left them rotting on that hill-top. But standing five feet over her head looked a helluva lot bigger than laid out in the dirt.

The ogre roared, and with those big legs, a single lunge landed it right in the middle of them, a sweep of its arm knocking Xzar flat to the ground. Didn't hardly have time to see whether he got back up; Imoen's eyes were all for the creature, sighted down her bow. _Turn around, big guy, lemme see that face of yours. _For wouldn't nothing else on him be soft enough for her arrows.

Montaron must've been keeping it distracted, though; the ogre kept side-stepping and turning, its attention on something near its feet. Hopefully the halfling was doing some damage down there, but cutting up its legs wouldn't do no good: about as much damage as the one arrow she'd loosed poking out of its back.

If the damned thing wouldn't stay still—

Imoen lowered her bow. The wand was in her pack, now, no room for it with both a sword and dagger swinging from her belt. Better save those charges for an emergency, anyway. Things didn't look to be so bad as that just yet: Sajantha had already helped Xzar up to his feet, even if he was leaning on her pretty heavy. Halfway towards Imoen, he stopped to raise his hand. She couldn't hear him, but that must've been a spell: the ogre faltered just as Xzar perked up, the blood on his face fading.

And he had another spell ready, too, though as he spoke it, he drooped and dropped. Shimmering there in the air a hand appeared, all aglow and transparent. And he pointed, limping with Sajantha and the floating hand, towards Imoen. The hand darted off, right for the ogre.

And _then _the ogre whirled, its stupid face all confused and growling, its stupid face right in line with her arrows. A short prayer to Tymora, and Imoen started firing. Took a few rounds before the ogre noticed them, still, but one lucky arrow drove deep into its eye and it at last went down like a pile of rocks, shaking the ground. Looked like a pile of rocks, too, with all them big muscles strong and round as boulders.

"Necromancy and healing aren't so very different as that," Xzar was saying to Sajantha. "They both ply upon the life force, after all, and what may be given may be taken as well." And he'd taken back the energy lost on that magic-hand, then, looking fit as a fiddle once again as the two of them came closer.

Montaron wiped his sword off, then his brow. "Fellow this big ought to have some big treasure, aye?"

Imoen reached down. "How 'bout this?" The shimmer on the belt screamed enchantment, definitely a lot sturdier than the girdle she'd been wearing. "Awfully big, yes, sir." Imoen stepped into it, started to pull it up around her waist. "Betcha it'll cling right on with magic; I can't get this buckle loose..."

"No!"

The belt dropped to her ankles and Imoen almost tripped as Sajantha tugged her free.

"Don't touch it," her friend gasped, "it's cursed!"

Imoen hopped around until one foot slipped out, and she managed to kick the rest off. "What? What! _Cursed?"_

Sajantha held it loose, like it were a snake she wanted to fling far away, but she gathered the belt real careful-like and wadded it into her pack. Best not to leave something like that just lying around for the next unlucky sod.

Sajantha let out a shaky breath. "Some pranking wizard enchanted it. It would have turned you into a man!"

Imoen couldn't help the laugh that burst out, all the more funny with Sajantha's pale face staring back. "I may just have to learn me some magic," she said. "That's a neat trick. No more bug-bees in the pie, no sir; I'da had some real fun! Can you just imagine Winthrop in this thing? Or _Ulraunt?_ I'd like to meet the wizard what did it, bet he was just full of ideas."

"Perhaps you might lend the belt to Montaron," Xzar suggested. "Becoming a woman could only soften his disposition."

"Choke on it, you. Or better yet—wear it yerself. You've already got the dress."

Xzar chortled. "Robes, Monty._ Robes._"


	4. Chapter 4 (Friendly Arm)

The Friendly Arm Inn squatted like a mole-mound on the bright spring landscape. Its stout, solid walls looked like they could weather anything—and they probably _had, _if Volo was right about the sinister goings-on in this place_. _Imoen let out a needed to be beautiful, but to Imoen, it was, just then: there'd be beds inside, warm food and cold ale—

"It looks like a tomb." Sajantha hugged the guidebook. "I don't see anything 'friendly' about it. And it's so Volo named it a fortress, I thought, well... shouldn't its towers be higher? Not very towering, are they?"

Imoen shook her head, trying not to chuckle. Sajantha's brow was drawn up, all earnest; she looked more hurt than anything. "You can't just compare everything to Candlekeep." The keep was a one-of-a-kind fortress, sure enough; its long, spindly towers were about as far from this box-like stronghold as they could be. Sajantha looked down, biting her lip. Imoen took pity on her. "'N just what is there to see out here, anyway? Trees aren't so high; the towers don't need to be, neither."

But even after they'd passed through the gates—past the guards spouting off some rote warning about misbehaving—Sajantha kept glancing around with dismay. "Everyone's so _dirty."_

Imoen had to whoop out a laugh. "You looked in a mirror there, lately?"

Sajantha ran her hand through her hair—or tried to, got her fingers stuck in the tangle. Imoen laughed harder.

Didn't win her any points with Sajantha, but the halfling snickered. Well and good; Montaron grinning was a good sight less scary than him scowling.

"Hey, there—could I trouble you a moment?" The old woman's light hair was pulled back in a bun, pulled so tight it might have pulled her wrinkles back, too; she didn't look nearly so old as she sounded. Must've been a fighting sort, once, with those broad shoulders and the way she stood. But age creaked her voice out, "Might be I've a task for ye, if you've the pluck."

The four came to a stop around her. "That so?" Be nice to build up some coin out here, and this lady was dressed nice enough for the folk hereabouts, but probably didn't even a handful of silver on her.

"We've pluck enough in fair proportion, good mistress." Sajantha gave a little bow, a flourish of her skirts. She got a kick out of acting like that. "What aid might we offer?"

"Well! No need for such manners. It's pluck, I say, not politeness will aid me." The old woman shook her head. "Some hobgoblins done robbed me blind, and I want you to return the favor. They took a ring from me, and I need it back."

"Is it a magic ring?" Adventurers always had magic trinkets, amulets and the like.

"Oh, it's striking enough, but not worth much to any but me, I expect. Gift of my father."

At her side, Sajantha stood there, real quiet—so quiet, Imoen had to turn because her silence was so loud; she had to make sure it hadn't swallowed her. "We'll get your ring back," Sajantha declared.

Montaron scoffed. "_We'll _be getting a nice meal and a rest. Ye chase after yer jewelry as you like; I'll have no part."

"Would there perchance be a reward for our efforts?" Xzar asked.

"I've no coin to give you. I was just robbed, remember?"

"No? Then the inn does seem to beckon louder, doesn't it." He waved. "You children have fun, now."

"So just how we gonna do this?" Imoen saved the question til they'd passed back through the inn's gates, trudging back 'round the outer walls. "And for what? A little piece of someone else's jewelry—risking our lives for a treasure we don't even get to keep!"

Sajantha just shook her head as she kept walking fast. At least she had perked up. Had some kind of plan, or at least the energy for one. Doing something, better than nothing. Even if it seemed stupid.

Real stupid, when they got close enough to see their quarry. The cluster of hobgoblins strolled down the path up ahead, bristling with weapons and confidence, both.

Sajantha's eyes flashed in the sunlight as she turned to face Imoen. "They might look like brutes—" And they did, all hairy and stinky and yuck— "but they're not stupid."

"So we aren't stronger, nor smarter, neither? You're not reassuring me overmuch, here."

"So we simply find something we're better at."

"Like what? Climbing trees? Spinning sonnets?"

Sajantha's head bobbed. "Exactly."

"So long as we do it fast." Wouldn't take more than a minute before the group was close enough to spot them. "Them's just got to be the ones." How many more bands of hobgoblins could be out here?

Sajantha squinted. "They're awfully close to the walls. I wonder why the guards don't get involved."

"It's trouble won't get past their walls, they say, nothing 'bout the troubles outside." Sajantha frowned, and Imoen gave a little shrug. "Gotta draw the line somewhere, I guess."

"I guess. How many arrows do you have?"

"Enough." Imoen didn't have to look down at her quiver. "We gonna shoot 'em up, then? Just for stealing the wrong thing? Doesn't seem much fair, even them being hobgoblins."

"No," Sajantha agreed.

"'No,' it ain't fair, or 'no,' we ain't got to shoot them?"

"Neither." Sajantha looked back at Imoen, then. "Can you boost me into that tree?"

The hobgoblins were getting louder—closer—now, marching straight along the gravel road like they owned it. "Better hurry."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Hobgoblins. Sajantha hadn't read overmuch on them, but she knew a bit. They weren't so very much different than a man, nor so very larger.(And smaller than a man that looked like a demon, that adorned himself in spikes.)

"You ever seen a man looked like that?" Beside her, Imoen gulped. "We really gonna do this?"

Sajantha's mouth was dry.

"One of them's got a bow."

"And just what have you got?"

"A case of the jitters," Imoen replied. But her fingers smoothed down the side of her bow, ready.

"Just keep an eye towards him."

"Aye, aye." Even with her bow drawn, even with her jitters, Imoen sat far more at ease in the tree than did Sajantha.

Sajantha shifted. Straightening her skirts, she smoothed them down with care til the embroidered edges fell comfortably at her boots. Imoen snorted. "What if this don't work?"

"It'll work," said Sajantha, because it had to: because the heroines would not be outwitted or murdered by hobgoblins. "They may be brutes, but they're smart as a regular person. Just because they're not human—"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it."

And Sajantha smoothed down her lap once more, drawing her harp out to rest upon it.

The first notes had to be smooth and quiet, must not startle, for if the group were first roused to suspicion, how much more difficult to calm them?

She drew upon the gentle warmth of the sunlight, filtered through the trees, that tickle of spring. Inviting, this soft plush grass—and mightn't that mossy rock serve as a pillow? And how much would she rather be resting this moment, tucked in and safe abed? How nice it would be, to shut her eyes, to drift asleep? The music caught her up in its spell, her mind drifting, continuing the thought: _How nice, to wake up to find this all a dream?_

As startling as a cold drop of water, the sad, discordant thought jarred her from her daydream, returned her to the task at hand.

In the road below, a pile of giant, hairy humanoids had all collapsed in slumber.

"It worked!" Sajantha stuffed her instrument into her pack, checking the clasps before she turned. "We'd better hurry, um. Imoen?"

Her friend's head tilted back against the tree. Snoring.

"_Imoen." _Sajantha shook her. "Come on—Imoen!"

Another glance down at the hobgoblins confirmed them still sleeping. For now. Sajantha grit her teeth and pressed her chest tight against the tree and dropped. She endured a heart-stopping jerk before her bare palms caught against the bark to slow her, scraping down the last half of the tree as she gracelessly slid down it. The ground greeted her legs with a lurch.

And even if she hadn't rubbed her hands raw, she could hardly expect to return that way—not climbing all the way back up. Not without help.

Sajantha slowly turned around. Wiry-muscled, lean and fierce, but covered in a fine fur, the hobgoblins slumbered. Now, so much nearer to her, they seemed far larger than a man. A woman's ring would not fit upon the finger of anything this size.

So, where would they keep a ring? This was Imoen's arena, the picking of pockets, of purses. No purses, but their satchels, perhaps, those leather cases they wore clipped to belt and swung over shoulders? Three of them to check.

Sajantha hurried towards them, fell to her knees as a gusting snore blew over her. Something like the stink of the stables, of animal-hides and perspiration tickled her nose near a sneeze. She held her breath, fumbling through the first bag. A twist of rope, a glittering bauble, a dagger. Her fingers flew through them.

Second one: a scrap of leather, a gem, no ring. What if it were somewhere else? Some hidden pocket? Some other hobgoblin? Their heavy breathing did not reassure her. Her own breath came fast.

If only she had Imoen's quiet steps! She shuffled towards the last one. This one's satchel looped about its middle, half-beneath it. And—_there_. A golden sparkle, bright as flame, danced in the sunlight. Beautiful. She slid the ring on before her shaking hands could drop it. Time to go; _go go go._

A snort blew out, a gust of hot air against her leg, and she stumbled back; her wavering arms windmilled for balance—Her shoe struck something hard. A stone, a face? She did not stop to check.

The crunch of gravel gave way to grass as Sajantha rushed back under the trees_. _No branches hung low enough to climb, assuming she could. One more wary glance over her shoulder, and then she was scanning the treeline again for Imoen's dangling leg.

_ Imoen wake up wake up Imoen please please wake up_

Which tree? Which _tree? _They all looked the same. Legless.

"Psst!"

Sajantha whirled. "There you are—you're awake!"

"Reckon I've built me up a bit of magic resistance by now," her friend grinned. "You alright, there? When you tripped on that hobgoblin, I about pissed myself."

Nearly like the aftermath of magic filling her, a heady thrill built within her. "I did it," she said, holding up her hand. "I did it!"

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"You have it!" The old lady's relief tripped right over her surprise. Her voice darkened. "I don't expect those brutes parted with it willingly."

Sajantha's hand clenched. "You asked us to find your ring," she said, stepping back. "Not to hurt anyone." She shifted her weight, hand on hip. "We were on a retrieval mission: successful, we accomplished our goal." She glanced down at her palm, then held out the ring. "Hobgoblin extermination is something else, entire."

"Yeah," Imoen grinned. "That's gold, right there."

Sajantha cast a quick glance back at her, shaking her head. "We're not taking money to kill anyone."

The bounty notice—stamped with Sajantha's face and a number—flashed through Imoen's mind, and her stomach flipped. "_Kidding_," she said, and she had been. "Just kidding."

The lady had her ring, now, and couldn't tear her gaze away. "My father gave it to me," she said, clutching it tight to her chest. "When I first left home." She sniffed. "I just couldn't bear it in the hands of those smelly hobgoblins."

Sajantha's eyes glimmered a little bit. "You're welcome," she said. Maybe that was even a smile?

As they walked back into the dusk-light, the shadows gobbled her sparkle right up. Sajantha's feet started to drag, til Imoen had to come to a halt, too.

"My father's friends are in there," Sajantha said, staring up at the inn. Didn't seem so squat, now, looming over them like this, blocking out the setting sun. "I..." She rubbed her arms. "What am I going to say to them?"

Imoen cleared her throat. "We ain't got to rush it. We'll have a bite, get some rest. And... don't you worry about it. I can do the talking."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Music picked up from the performers in the corner, a lively tune that did not at all liven the mood. A foot-stomping, dancing tune, but the horns blared far too grating, each clash of the cymbals sent her flinching, and the beat of snare drums simply reminded her anew of a headache.

Nor was Sajantha the only one so discomforted. A similar pall draped over the entire facility, hard as the music attempted to overcome it. Patrons looked up only to scowl, each locked in their own private misery but still willing to commiserate; all the tales she overheard were the same: no travel, roads too dangerous, iron breaking, bandits...

Sajantha sighed. "And our troubles land us right in the middle of this mess." Guilt sneaked up, grabbed her tongue, too late—for saying 'ours' when it was 'hers', _her_ troubles she'd dragged Imoen into—but her friend didn't seem to notice.

"Fit right in with these sad sacks, don't we?" The hand propping up Imoen's chin hid her mouth and a very probable grin.

Sajantha couldn't quite manage to return a smile. Could barely manage to keep her head up, so heavy did it seem. She let it sink against her hands as she rubbed her temples. "I'm tired," she said, and Imoen jumped up, chagrin—no grin—on her face.

"Sure," she said. "I'll go get us a room, then. Take care of it. You just wait right here; I got it. I'll take care of everything."

In a half a moment she was gone, slipped round the corner towards the innkeep.

"That your sister?"

"What?" Sajantha had to lower her arms to look around for the speaker; without the support, her head wobbled, heavy. A little ways down the counter, a brown-haired man leaned towards her.

"Oh," she said, as the words sank in. "No. We're just friends. Why, you think we look alike?" She had never supposed so, not when Candlekeep had lacked for diversity; there had been too few women to compare to.

"Oh, yeah!" he nodded vigorously. "She's real cute, too." And he smiled with enough of a sparkle laughing in his eyes that somehow his appraisal wasn't entirely uncomfortable. He leaned forward, propping his chin in one hand. "I've not seen you here before today. What brings you to the Friendly Arm?"

Sajantha shifted to face him. "We're here to meet someone, actually."

"Is that so?" He straightened. "Pardon my being too forward, but... might you have traveled from Candlekeep, by any chance?" He read her widened eyes correctly. "I wonder if you are not the one I am to meet, then. Your name is Sajantha?"

She nodded, a weak flutter in her belly.

"Perfect..." His smile grew to take over his whole face. All but his eyes. "Hold still a moment, won't you?"

And it was no longer his smile growing, but teeth—a mouth stretched wide in a face that doubled and blurred—and either her stool was spinning or her head was; the world rushed at her from all sides and raced past her eyes, but his face kept following her: his grinning mouth gaping wider—

She had to get away.

Tripping on her own feet and every chair that clutched at her, corners and ledges everywhere, jabbing, stabbing, poking, pointy—sharp as the panic that held her chest tight. She tore herself away, past drunken faces, jeering faces: eyes eyes eyes all staring.

Her heart pounded fast—too fast—hands on her chest couldn't keep it in; it would burst, burst free. She would _die_ and she couldn't outrun it, couldn't escape her heart or the knowledge of its finite beats remaining: one by one, they escaped her, drumming free, drumming like her footfalls as she flew down the stairs. Away.

Demon or devil, this twisted laughing face, it delved inside her and she should vomit it out, her insides quivered but with not near enough muscle force to seize them. Black spots inside her, in her eyes, the darkness grew like spilled ink. Washed over her.


	5. Chapter 5

Imoen had only been away for a moment, for the time it took to reserve a room—and maybe she had been a little thirsty and ordered them another drink, too (stupid stupid stupid)—then turned around only to see Sajantha and the man beside her both vanished.

Imoen knew what had happened in a single sickening instant: a realization that stabbed sharper than the shards of glass as she dropped the drinks.

You should have warned her. You should have warned her about the bounty; why didn't you?

_I didn't want to scare her. I didn't want to give her something else to worry about. She didn't need that, maybe couldn't even handle it—_

Same reason you've been holding onto Gorion's spellbook this long?

_There wasn't a good time. _

And there'll never be one, now, not if she's dead. Not if he took her out back to slit her throat, and maybe right now she's crying out—for you, for anyone—but all he can see is a pile of golden coin instead of golden curls—a bounty, a body, not a person—so he won't hear her or her spells or nothing; he'll just cut out her throat—

And gods, oh gods!_ Don't let that be true, don't let that happen, not now not ever; I'll do anything anything I swear; I'll stop swearing I'll stop gambling I'll stop making fun of the way Ulraunt's robes bunch up in the back like he really does have his iron staff crammed up there; anything, anything, just don't let it be too late. _

_ "Sajantha!"_

Night had chilled the air right down; a cool blast struck her as she flew outside, stole the rest of her breath. Not too far, they couldn't have gotten too far. A muffled yelp—below her—Imoen jumped right off the stone staircase, doubled back around it.

In the dim stone hollow behind the staircase, he'd cornered Sajantha, a sickly fog of green surrounding them both. But Imoen wasn't the only one chased after him; another had got their first.

Montaron's flashing blade went dark as it sunk into the man's back. Take that, yeah! Whatever magic that assassin had summoned—that pale green glow—was already clearing out. Sajantha was all right. She was all right. Imoen's heart didn't seem to realize it, though, still kept trying to jump out her throat.

And Sajantha didn't seem to realize it, either. She scrabbled backwards, clawing at Xzar, trying to get free and not hearing a single thing—

Xzar looked up at Imoen and a flying elbow caught him in the gut. "A spell," he grunted—and it still held Sajantha—held her tighter than the skinny wizard she worked to jab free of.

Imoen rushed to her side, grabbed at those flailing arms. "Hey! Sajantha, Sajantha—it's me. It's Imoen. Stop it—ouch! Calm down. It's okay. It's okay."

Her friend's frantic eyes disagreed. The spell took a minute more to run its course; they were all of them winded by the end of it. Imoen waited til Sajantha stopped struggling before she let go. Sajantha didn't get too far, though, kept holding on to Imoen's arm. She took in a shaky breath.

"Are you alright?"

Sajantha swallowed. "I," she said, "I..." Her fingers dug into Imoen's arm as she lurched, then abruptly let go as she staggered to the side. "I'm going to throw up." And she did.

Imoen patted her gingerly on the back. "S'okay, Sajantha. You're okay."

But she couldn't even keep standing. Still staring at the body, at the spread of red at its center, Sajantha sank to the ground, holding her hands tight against her mouth. Her shoulders shook.

"If the young lady is finding our results unpalatable, perhaps she had best _away_." Xzar punctuated the word with a shooing motion.

Sajantha didn't look up. Hugged her arms together. "He... he knew who I was. How did he...?"

"This be one of the friends ye was to meet, then?" Montaron scuffed his boot, near enough the body to give it a little kick. Sajantha flinched.

Xzar stared down at the body with interest, and as Imoen followed his gaze she saw why, saw the scrap of paper poked free of the fallen wizard's bags. Some other things sat stuffed in there, too, but Imoen was only interested in that one page, and crammed it quick into her own pocket before standing back up.

Xzar cocked his head.

"'S nothing." Imoen straightened, hands on hips. "He sure wasn't one of our friends, though, not even! Just what kind of friends you think we keep?"

The necromancer gave her a sly look. "You've not yet met them, for there were none inside that you recognized. What friends, indeed? They could be any manner of folk."

Sajantha struggled to sit up, reaching as if she could grab after her composure. "They're... my father, he—he said we could trust them." She still looked way too shaken to be convinced, didn't have it in her to convince anyone else.

The two men shared a glance. "Trust is hard to come by," said Xzar.

"And true friends be harder still." Montaron crossed his arms. "You think your pals yet be within—aye, we'll wait. Take care of the mess, even, if ye can keep out of trouble so long."

Xzar knelt beside the body, rubbing his hands as he tilted his head to look up at them. "I take it you do not wish to involve the authorities in this matter?"

Montaron snorted out a sound that might have been a laugh. "We've delays enough, wizard. Just as soon not." But his gaze had caught on the paper, too, and the eyes that met Imoen's were shrewd.

She took a step closer to Sajantha.

"Now, where was that spell, Monty?" Xzar asked, fiddling through his bags. "Shall it be incineration, disintegration... or, perhaps, decomposition?"

The halfling spat to the side. "I don't care half at all, 'less he starts to stink afore we're clear. Aim for the last two, then, for the first'll be more attention than we need." He sidled over to the staircase, peering 'round it towards the entrance. "I'll keep an eye out." He only made it a few steps before turning back towards Imoen. "What are ye waiting for?" he snapped. "Get the girlie a-gone. She looks a little green."

And she kinda did, still all pale and sweaty. The night air seemed to help, though. And getting a different view surely would. Didn't have to tell them twice.

They weren't much out of sight—just up the staircase—before Sajantha pulled free of her. "Let me see it."

"Huh?" Imoen said, startled, though her mind hopped a few steps ahead and found the answer itself. Better play dumb. "See what?"

Sajantha waved. "The paper. Let me see it."

Imoen took a moment to smooth out the crumpled wad before handing it over. Sajantha stared at it a full minute without speaking, without her expression changing at all: her face looked more blank than the page.

"It's a bounty," Imoen explained, knowing it was unnecessary—obvious—but unable to stare at that expressionless face any longer. The other girl stood so still, so contained, but the paper wilted a little in her grasp.

"You knew," Sajantha said, voice flat, but almost like she wanted it to be a question. When she looked up, that quietness hadn't left her face—but now it was that same look that Gorion could get, where if you lied to him it would just break your heart.

Imoen looked down, rubbed her arm. "Yep. I... I reckon so."

Wasn't any anger in Sajantha's voice to turn it to an accusation, though. "Why?" was all she said.

It seemed stupid now. And dangerous, oh-so-dangerous; Sajantha could have _died_ and oh gods she still could—how many copies of that double-damned thing were floating around?

"I'm sorry," said Imoen, only her voice caught, and she kind of whispered it.

"Oh!" It was Sajantha's turn to startle. "Oh, no—I meant... I just don't understand, not any of this. Why _me?_ What have I got to do with anything?" The paper made a crinkle of protest as her fingers tightened. "It doesn't make any sense."

And she came to life at last, tossing her gaze around like an angry horse looking for a foot to stomp. Sajantha must not have found what she was looking for, though; she made a fed-up kind of sound and the paper became a crumpled mess again, wadded in her clenched fist. "It doesn't make any _sense!_" That fact seemed to offend her more than the bounty itself.

"Don't let your brain get stuck there, Sajantha. Not yet. The real question—where we got to start—is something else entire."

Sajantha waited, but now she wore that stillness over her like a coat, like her skin itched to be free of it. Like she was ready to run.

"_Who,_" Imoen finished, feeling a fair amount of pride for her logic.

"The demon-man," Sajantha whispered, drawing back. A change came over her—as if she were a plant that could wilt, those green eyes seemed near fading out to gray as she withered away.

_Stand up,_ Imoen wanted to beg her. _Like you stood against the dragon. Stand tall and fierce and proud; you don't need Gorion beside you for that. You got me. _

"Who cares about the why!" Imoen said, throwing her hands in the air. "We don't need a why; we know enough. I find him, he won't even get the chance to answer any questions." She would do him in the way he did Gorion: without hesitation. If that's what it took to end this—for them to be safe—Imoen would see it done. Man or demon, she'd kill him herself.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Back within the inn proper, all the faces watched Sajantha. She knew they did. _Two-hundred gold. _Their eyes climbed all over, crawled up her spine. Something brushed by her back and she startled, gripped Imoen's arm. Imoen. It was just Imoen.

"We should go," the voice that didn't sound like hers rasped out. "I have to go. I need some air."

But the air hadn't helped, had it? That last flight down the dark stairs, bolting past these eyes... and nothing waited outside but shadows. No shelter. Her heart should be too tired to keep up this pace. "I want to go."

Was that what her father had thought? Had he felt that same urgent spurring, the call of the road—had he trusted those roads to keep them safe?

_ Father..._

"I've done got us a room upstairs. Be nice to sleep on real pillows again, huh?"

Sajantha only half-heard her. Far louder was the rush of blood pounding in her head, the whispers all around. "Maybe we should go." Someone was watching. They were all watching. They could crawl into her room while she slept. Hover with a knife over her. The first assassin's blade had flashed as it drew towards her throat—and this time her magic could not save her, not in her sleep— "I think we should go."

Imoen paused. "Well... Mister G told us to go _here_, right? To meet someone. So one of these fellows out looking for you's not aiming a sword for you, at least."

But which one? How to find out, short of coming closer to those swords than she cared to? Divination, perhaps. There were those who had spells to detect ill will and malice. Priests, paladins. But not a silly little sorceress.

The protests dried in her mouth. She followed Imoen up to their room, trudged up the stairs.

They knew her face. That little ink drawing was a remarkable likeness. The only difference was the sketched Sajantha didn't look _scared._ She made a face at her reflection, sticking out her tongue. Better. Spells of illusion... glamours. Sajantha couldn't be the quiet kid of Candlekeep: she'd have to be somebody else.

No room here to kneel, but she tipped her head and closed her eyes.

_ Oghma_...  
_ If it be in your works  
for me to die,  
allow me first  
the reason why._

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Imoen couldn't put it off any longer. Shouldn't. She cleared her throat.

"I didn't know just how to announce it, you know..." She waited til Sajantha turned around from the mirror. "But I been dragging these around long enough. Got some stuff of Gorion's, here."

Still pale, but her friend looked almost like her old self as her eyes lit up. "You do?"

Not mad, then, not mad at all. "Oh—oh, yeah!" Imoen leaned forward, dumping the contents of her pack out all over the bed. "I mean, it's just some bits and pieces, really, but I got a few things." She gestured at the pile, seizing on the items one by one. "This here's a ring of his, then there's this, uh, note here tucked right into his spellbook... well, kinda stuck, actually." And a couple gems, but those wouldn't do Sajantha any good; Imoen would go ahead and pawn them off somewhere.

There had been a dagger, too, a bit busted up and not worth much. She tossed it on the pile where its bent edge cocked haphazard. "Shabby, but it works." And gods knew that girl could use some more protection.

Sajantha stood still, and stared at the pile for a goodly breath or two. "That's him, then," she said at last. "That's... that's what's left of him."

Looking at it like that, well, hardly seemed worth mentioning, now. This little pile of what had been a great man. Didn't add up, not even close. Imoen rubbed the back of her neck. "Not much, I know."

Sajantha came to sit beside her on the bed, careful not to disturb anything. Hard enough mattress that nothing jostled, but Imoen pushed the dagger clear away anyhow. She looked up as Sajantha squeezed her arm.

"It's something, though," Sajantha said. "And it's a great deal more than nothing. Thank you, Imoen." She reached for the spellbook first, her eyes wide and wary like she almost expected its cover to spring open on its own—maybe with little teeth to nip at her fingers. She hefted the tome into her lap and just sat there with it, waiting.

Imoen turned away; better organize the rest of this junk. And that belt! A giddy little thrill bubbled as she handled it—maybe that was sensing its magic, like Sajantha did—or could just be the excitement of a perfect prank waiting to unfold.

Beside her, Sajantha still hadn't moved, just kind of hugging the book. Great. So maybe this idea had backfired sure as a gnomish crossbow; she should have waited til she was sure her friend could handle it—

Sajantha's eyes were closed, her mouth twisting into a frown. Concentrating.

"There's a warding in place," she sighed, and let the cover fall open in a rustle of pages. Imoen glanced at it. Seemed fine: no teeth. So what was the problem?

"They're blank," said Sajantha, flipping through the book. "All the pages are blank."

"Why—what for?"

Sajantha closed the book, tracing a symbol on the cover. Idly, Imoen figured, with no magic to the motion; Sajantha wouldn't dare cast anything without preparing first.

Her friend's hair fell down to cover her eyes. "To protect it. To protect other people from it. He must have so many spells..."

Imoen cleared her throat. "Can you, uh, de-spellify it?"

"Me? No, I never studied that." Bitterness crept into her voice, but just a hint: quick and quicker gone. "It's not as though there was a point."

"But Miirym was under some enchantment, right? I thought that's exactly what you were studying!"

"It's different. They're not much the same, at all; they're entirely different provinces. Miirym was bound: that's a conjuration spell. Dispelling wards like this falls under the abjuration school."

"No single magic word for everything, then." Guess there was a reason folk studied the Art entire lifetimes. And extra lifetimes; some of them wizards were downright ancient.

Sajantha bowed her head. "Magic was never supposed to be easy."

"Safer that way, I guess." Imoen gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's heavy, though; you want I should keep carrying it?"

"No." She hugged it to her chest. "I've got it."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"I'm looking for my ring." The pull on her arm tugged as insistent as the pleading voice. "Help me. Will you help me?" A young boy stared up at her, red-rimmed eyes sharp in his soft face.

Sajantha bit her lip. There was something else she should do; somewhere else she should be. Thunder sounded, and with its rumble an apprehension tremble through her. "Is it important?" she asked him.

The boy paused in his search only to stare up at her, his dirty cheeks half-cleared by tear tracks. "It's the most important thing in the world. My father left it for me."

"Alright." Sajantha knelt at his side, smiling at him. "What does your ring look like?"

"Red as the rising river, hot as the flames of the Abyss—"

Sajantha jerked her head towards him, unnerved, but a burning in her palm caught her attention instead. Captivating swirls of fire danced in her hand, the most beautiful thing; its heat curled inside her, unfolding—

Lightning split the sky. The child stood before her with pale eyes aglow. "Give it to me," he said, small hand outstretched, steady, despite the wind that sent his hair flying.

Her hand closed around the ring. Warmth filled her, a shield that kept the wind snapping her hair from chilling her.

"You can't hide it—"

Sajantha clenched her hand into a fist. Red ran down her wrist. He reached for it—for her— small grubby hands clasping, and Sajantha backed away.

The darkness had grown, the landscape lit only by bolts that flickered as sporadic as the wind. She tried to stand and tripped, her leg caught as if by grasping hands.

A flash of lightning and her vision went white—she blinked away the spots, and— bodies. As far as she could see, this field of tangled limbs, and she stood amidst them, atop them. A fortress with arrow slits for eyes and a blank smooth surface looked down expressionless at the carnage around it.

"Give it to me."

Her fingers spasmed open, but her open hand held nothing. Empty, but for the blood it dripped.

The child lunged for her with fingers hooked and grasping, his young face twisted in a snarl, eyes wild and burning with white-hot fire. "_It's mine_," he screamed, and his voice boomed with the thunder; louder than the storm, it shook through her.

And she recoiled from his shout, turned away, and behind her the fortress woke, opened its arrow-slit eyes to stare down. She covered her face, crouched low; it was the spiked man not-a-man beneath his demon-horned helm, it was a grinning skull with eyes of fire. Laughter boomed all around, inside-out, it shook her.

_ YOU CAN'T HIDE_

* * *

Tangled round her feet, her middle, grasping arms reached to hold her. No! No, just sheets, just blankets, though they wrapped 'round her tight as any grasping fingers as the malicious shout still echoed in her ears. Sajantha's eyes raced through the dark room. Empty. No one here, no little boys with glowing eyes, no monsters, no corpses; only Imoen laid at her side, unmoving.

"Imoen?"

Shadows crawled in the corners of the room, crept at the corners of her vision. Imoen lay still. Sajantha shifted, she bunched at the blankets, she tugged at the covers.

Imoen stirred. "Hey," she murmured, blinking.

"Hey," Sajantha replied, but her mouth didn't work; she shivered, instead, the word trapped behind her lips.

Imoen sat up, leaned forward. "Sajantha—you okay?"

She shook her head, but once she started shaking, couldn't stop. Imoen reached her arms around Sajantha as she sat there trembling.

"S'okay," Imoen mumbled. "That nasty mage is dead, just nappin' in the dirt. Can't hurt you."

How many others slept here beneath the ground? "A lot of people died here." Right here. "A whole lot of people." Between the guidebook and her dream, she knew it for a truth.

"Was a long time ago," her friend said with a yawn. "Twenty years, right?"

Twenty years ago, a stronghold of an evil god. A god of murder.

A grinning face: _Stay still a moment, won't you? _A grinning skull—

"I can't stay in here." As good as buried beneath the ground in this windowless room: a coffin, a tomb. The walls pressed in; they squeezed her heart. "I just can't_._"

"Sure," Imoen said, rubbing her eyes. "Let me just..." She fumbled a moment at the nightstand. Grabbed her pack. Her dagger.


	6. Chapter 6

"Could pay the temple a visit," Imoen's steps slowed as a patrolling guard walked past them, his torch sending his shadow jumping after him. "Bet it's quiet in there. Real pretty, too." Not worn down like the other structures nearby, the gold-brick temple fairly glowed in the torchlight.

"Alright."

The first step across the temple's threshold proved Imoen right. Oh, that same reverent hush filled the halls at Candlekeep; far more peaceful than even the quietest night out-of-doors could ever be. Sajantha took in a deep breath.

Above them, scattered gems decorated the walls and twinkled down like stars. Soft footsteps shuffled towards them, a tapping echoed off the marbled tiles.

"Be welcome," said the priestess, growing little larger as she neared. The gnomish woman smiled up at them, leaning forward on a cane—a small stave topped with a green gem. "What can old Gellana do for ye?"

Sajantha looked at Imoen, but the other girl was staring open-mouthed at the gold-leaf walls, running her fingers along a gilded edge. She turned back to the woman. "Sorry if we've disturbed you. It's just... I had a nightmare."

It sounded ridiculous, to break this silence with such a thing, but Gellana was already nodding. "I've just the thing. A charm against ill luck; Beshaba's Bane, they call it."

"No, it was the... the dead god. Bhaal. He used to be here. I think I just felt—all the deaths here." And the one earlier tonight that had nearly been her own.

Gellana stared at her, then started shaking her head. "No," she said.

"No? I told you, I—"

"No, there's nothing like that, here. This place is cleansed. It took a good season's work, but we cleaned it right out good. The only darkness here is what you bring with you, which is why the rules are so strict: this be a place of peace and goodwill. They told you, didn't they? At the gate?" She frowned. "Did they forget to be telling you?"

"Me?"

Imoen pulled away from the shimmering wall, glanced over. "You sayin' this is her fault?"

"I'm saying you can keep the darkness out. No one's blaming you; you don't know any better, couple star-eyed tenderfoots like you."

"Are you serious?"

"No!" Gellana grinned, taking pity on Sajantha's flushed face. "I'm a priestess of the Sparkling Wit, why should I be serious?"

"What? Of whom?"

She wiggled her ringed fingers. "Do you know of the Watchful Protector, the Priceless Gem?"

"The Joker, right?" Imoen had heard of him, at least.

Gellana beamed. "Aye, Garl Glittergold."

Imoen gave Sajantha a nudge. "Garl's all about pranks and jokes and laughter. How better to match all them nasty, murdering types? I reckon she knows what she's talking about."

"That she does," the gnome agreed, tapping her cane onto the tile to add a firm punctuation. "And I'd take you for two fresh travelers, by the look of you."

"Aye, and a bit fresher now that we've cleaned up." Sajantha rubbed her shoulder.

"What's this, then?" The priestess clucked her tongue. "You should have come to me straightaway! Look at you, blood on your shirt—"

Sajantha drew her hand away. "That? Oh, it's nothing; it's from days ago."

The gnome was poking at Imoen's jerkin, now, too—though she couldn't reach so very high—her stave made up for it. "And neither of ye healed properly, not half. If you've an ailment, you come to see Gellana."

Sajantha clutched her pendant. Beside Oghma's symbol hung her father's ring, too large for her to wear alone. "I fear you cannot cure what ails me."

"If there's aught old Gellana can do, she will. You try me."

"And what of your god? Can he bring back the dead?"

"Sajantha—" Imoen took a step forward, and the priestess steadied herself against Imoen's arm.

"There is death in the pantheons, aye, but so too is there life." Gellana lowered her voice, took Sajantha's arm, as well. "Gods of murder hold sway here no longer, and Garl will do what needs be done. Have you the petitioner at hand?"

"It's too late, Sajantha," Imoen whispered. "He's gone."

The gemmed walls glimmered especially bright; Sajantha's hair tumbled into her eyes as she stared at the polished floor.

Gellana patted her arm. "If you won't take my advice and get yourselves a full night of rest, then you'll take a good bit of healing." She stepped away, and Sajantha's knees almost went out as a firm 'thwap' on the back of her legs knocked her forward.

"It's all in your carriage," Gellana continued, waving her cane to emphasize. "You're too hunched. Straighten, up, aye, and we'll see that shoulder's not bothering you!"

"Sitting at a desk reading books all day'll do that to ya," Imoen nodded.

Sajantha's face flared hot as Gellana's cane jabbed into her back, sent her straightening. Ridiculous! And yet...

"That's it, chin up! Shoulders back. Don't take no guff from no one, that's right. Learned a thing or two, I did, making sure you Big Folk don't step on me, eh?" She winked.

"I've got a joke for you," Imoen said. "What do you call a dragon that ain't got no wings nor feet?" Gellana cocked her head. "Well, don't you be callin' her a kobold, for she's still got some teeth!"

Gellana hooted out out a laugh, closing her eyes as if to commit it to memory. She nodded, smiling. "Thank you."

"I—I wish we had something more to give you, Gellana." Imoen had added some gems and a handful of coins to the offering bowl, but what else did they have for payment? Sajantha swallowed. "I fear we haven't much to offer."

"That will do, sweethearts, that will do. Now close your eyes, give Gellana your hands—and you must smile, aye—that's the trick to it." The priestess cleared her throat, her fingers warm and growing warmer as she channeled. "Do not fear change, or the unorthodox: for therein lies the future."

The healing took hold, then; its warmth soaked her bones as it tingled up her spine and down each limb. It left behind a lightness, as if it had freed her of more than fatigue. Gellana squeezed her hand. Sajantha opened her eyes to find the old woman beaming. "And, in all things, do what works."

"Wow," Imoen whispered. "Thank you, Gellana. Here, I—" She started digging about in her pockets again. "I'm sure I got something else..."

Gellana peered over her. "Any iron in there? It's so scarce these days, seems as valuable as gold." She shook her head. "'T ain't be long before no one can afford to be well-equipped. What will the guards do, then?"

"Who would challenge them?" Sajantha asked. "If it's so widespread as you say."

Gellana turned towards her, leaving Imoen to her search. "'Tis the brigands be stealing what iron ain't rotting. Bandits up and down the Sword Coast. Just where ye hail from, if you've not heard of them?"

"Westerly, from Candlekeep."

"Ahh." The woman's eyes flashed; she tapped her lips. "For a moment I thought ye two were playing a trick on old Gellana. The bandits are the talk of all travelers, those not talking of ore and iron. But the Lion's Way, aye, it should stay clear enough."

"Candlekeep's always been removed from worldly troubles." The keep was of a far higher purpose; such concerns never seemed to penetrate it.

"Not so always_,_" Imoen reminded her. "Not so the _Time_ of Troubles."

"And let's just see them stick this one out," Gellana shook her head. "Things are so bad, the Grand Dukes have been blaming Amn. You don't just go around throwing accusations at the most powerful nation in the Western lands, but the Dukes are getting paranoid. Sending the Flaming Fist all the way down to Beregost. They're supposed to be Baldur's Gate's own defenses, but—scattered thin like this? I don't like it."

There didn't seem to be much at all to like, out here. "And what are we to do with it? We've troubles enough of our own without worrying about the whole of the Sword Coast's."

"Oh?" said Gellana, raising an eyebrow. "And who's to worry about the Sword Coast, if not those in the middle of it? The problems aren't the region's, child, but everyone's within." It sounded like something her father would have said.

"That's what Harpers are for," Imoen nudged her, echoing her thoughts. "And heroes, yeah?"

"We all have our troubles," Gellana continued. "Whether we let ourselves be troubled _by _them is another matter. Seems all folk hereabouts are willing to do is complain."

Sajantha cleared her throat. "You're right," she said. Then looked over at Imoen. "And _you're_ right. I can't think of anyone better to counteract whatever darkness was left behind here. Thank you for everything, Gellana."

"'Tis only a strong will and a strong heart that is needed," the priestess said.

"Gellana Mirrorshade," Sajantha murmured.

_ "The gentlest of reflections, no truth too hard to face;  
However it stares back at you, she keeps it in its place.  
While darkness waits and beckons without,  
Within her watchful protection lies peace... never doubt."_

The air shimmered a moment, gemmed walls flickering in the lantern light as if they took on an extra glow. "Is this a spell you leave me," Gellana asked, staring up, "or a blessing?"

"It was nothing." Sajantha flushed. "Just a silly poem."

"Gellana," Imoen said, in all seriousness, as somber as befit the situation. "I want you to have this." With great care, she lifted an item from her pack: Imoen unwound the enchanted belt and settled it into the offering platter.

"Oh," said Gellana as she examined the donation. "Oh, _my_." She looked up with a smile. "This will be put to great use, don't you fear. Thank you, children."

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Imoen looked around. A bit of a glow to the horizon, but not yet enough sun to peek over those stone walls. "You know, I wouldn't mind taking up a place here. Lotta interesting folk in and out at all hours, no need to keep the noise down... And Garl's my kind of fella! Think Gellana would ever adopt us?"

Sajantha didn't answer, and Imoen bit her lip. The other girl hadn't really had time to get used to it, yet. Being an orphan.

Imoen couldn't stand the way she kept staring off, though; she gave the girl a poke. "She's right, you know. Just a little smile, now and again. Keeps the sadness from sneaking up."

Sajantha looked away, and Imoen couldn't tell if she were trying to smile or trying not to. She cleared her throat. "You—you know that's _you_, right?" She looked up, her eyes wet. "You're doing that for me all yourself."

Imoen glanced down, adjusting the clasp of her cloak. "Damn right. And don't you forget it. Full-time job, it is, too." She nodded. "You're welcome, by the way."

And maybe it was weak, maybe it was watery, but that was definitely a smile.

Gellana was already standing by the door, the lights from the inn sending her shadow back several times larger. "Your legs twice as long as mine, and ye still poke along! Come along, then."

That mention of Candlekeep must have rung some bells, for the priestess said she'd known Gorion, too, decades ago. And she knew the ones he'd sent word to, just who they were supposed to meet. Luck. Imoen sent off a prayer of thanks to Tymora. And a little one for Garl, too; Tymora wouldn't mind.

They followed her into the common room. It seemed brighter here now, it really did. Still shy of morning, but only just; dawn and the sun'd be creeping up in no time. "You sure they're awake yet? Wouldn't want to bother them."

"Those two been sleeping in shifts since they arrived a tenday ago, waiting to hear from ye. No bother."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Gellana headed straight to the corner, an alcove Sajantha hadn't noticed. A half-elf slouched on the couch tucked within, head tipped to the side. He stirred, as if sensing them approach—not napping, then? Gellana cleared her throat.

"Wh-wh—hm?" His eyes shot open. "G-Gellana!" He scrambled to sit up, running a hand through his copper hair as he straightened. "I—I—" He swallowed, took a breath to start over. Then looked behind her. "Oh," he breathed, his hand lowering as his eyes grew bright. "You must be—Gorion's—"

Sajantha nodded. Her hands clutched at her skirts.

"Gorion...?" His eyes scanned behind her as he straightened. "He... is not with you, then?"

Sajantha could only shake her head, lips pressed too tight for speaking.

And he understood in a second—brow rising, face falling—such a mirror of her own insides breaking that she had to cover her mouth and look away, lest they escape her.

A female voice flew free from her side: "Where is Gorion?" The woman—another half-elf—stepped forward, frowning. "He would not permit his only child to wander without his accompaniment."

Sajantha's heart made a little hiccup. The two figures began to blur together; she blinked.

The man laid a hand upon the woman's arm. "Jaheira. He–he is not with her." He looked up at Sajantha, and his eyes were soft and sad. "If he has passed, we share your loss."

Cool fingers on her own, Imoen's hand slipped in, squeezed hers. Sajantha took in a breath.

The half-elf stood. "This is-isn't the introduction I would prefer," he said, rubbing his neck. The corners of his lips turned up, wry. "I am Khalid. It is g-good to know you, though I wish the circumstances had been different. This is my wife, Jaheira."

The woman nodded. "Gorion wished for Khalid and I to become your guardians, should he ever meet an untimely end. He worried for your safety, even at the expense of his own."

Sajantha swallowed. "Did you... did you know him well?"

"Aye, and we know of you, as well. He wrote often of you."

And yet he'd shared nothing of them. But these were the friends her father had spoken of; they were whom he had died telling her to find. "He never spoke much of his time as a Harper. I heard naught of you but that you had his trust, yet that speaks more than a thousand words could say."

"We would honor our promise to him, Sajantha. It would be a fitting last service to Gorion, though you are old enough, now, that the choice of your companions should be your own."

"It won't make your job any easier, to know a bounty's been placed upon me."

Jaheira seemed unruffled. "Then you will be safer for our company. We are headed to Nashkel. Khalid and I... look into local concerns, and there are rumors of strange things happening at the mine."

Sajantha shared a glance with Imoen. Definitely Harpers.

"Nashkel? Our companions were headed there, as well."

"Indeed? Interesting. In that case, we should definitely travel as one. You can never be too careful about the dangers of the open road. Wherever they may spring from."

Definitely Harpers, and friends of her father's... and two more pairs of eyes at her back.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Felt a bit like a business transaction, didn't it? 'Honoring promises'? Sounds more like an obligation, you ask me." Sajantha _hadn't _asked her, but Imoen couldn't keep her unease locked up so tight. As if it were a pendulum swinging between them, Sajantha again seemed in control, and Imoen was left out-of-sorts.

Sajantha shrugged off her concern. "My father said to trust them."

And that was that. Sajantha trusted Gorion—his word—more than anything else. Any_one _else. Didn't seem much fair, him being dead and all, but Sajantha looked all set to be offended on his behalf.

Imoen sighed. "They seemed nice enough," she allowed. "A bit stiff, though." How could she forget that was every monk Sajantha so enjoyed the company of? Wouldn't serve as any kind of deterrent, no, not hardly.

Sajantha looked up, then, looked right into her, and Imoen flushed. The green eyes softened. "He would be glad to know you were with me, more than any number of Harpers. They're his friends," she said simply, "and you're mine."

Imoen had to blink a few times to bring her friend's face back into focus. "Always," she answered, and then they both laughed a little as they wiped eyes and noses.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"The girlie dragging ye lot along to Nashkel as well?"

"W-we were already headed there."

"Oh?" Montaron crossed his arms, and even Xzar paused in organizing his pack. "And what business ye be having there?"

"That's our concern." Jaheira, with the dramatic arch of her brow, piercing gaze and pursed lips, resembled a narrowed-eyed bird. A bird of prey, perhaps: something that might snap off a finger if provoked.

"Aye, and rightly concerned ye look," said Montaron, who himself looked torn between mirroring Jaheira's glare and mocking it.

Sajantha cleared her throat. "So, what's going on with these mines, exactly?"

"All we've heard is a bunch of rumors I wouldn't credit a copper over," added Imoen.

"That's the question, isn't it? Perhaps they are haunted!" Xzar clapped his hands, only to begin rubbing them together. "Surely some magic is at work."

"That's not the real question," said Sajantha, making sure to catch Imoen's eye and give her a nod, give her credit. "It's _who_." That sounded properly epochal, but Jaheira wouldn't let it be.

"Or 'what'," the other woman said, which rather spoiled it.

Montaron gave her a glance. "Oh, there's a 'who' behind it, alright."

"You have an idea, do you?"

"Someone's behind this, someone organized. Might be all I know of it, but I know it for true."

"Someone casting aspersions where they are not due!" cried Xzar.

Was that glare especially suspicious?—or perhaps that pointed brow was Jaheira's normal state. "Many rumors posit the Zhentarim at fault," she said, eying them.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop; for a goodly breath, everyone froze.

Montaron spoke first. "Aye, any such trouble and ye'll find blame at the Zhents' doorstep as surely as ye'll find a Harper sniffing around..."

Suspicious. Definitely suspicious. Only, Jaheira looked to have surpassed suspicion into a chilling certainty that left her moss-colored eyes cold.

Sajantha stepped between them. "Different though our reasons may be, our goals for the moment align: to find who is behind this, and presumably to stop them. Agreed?" Tension crackled in the air between them, a buzz that raised the hair on her outstretched arms. It was too late for words; were they animals, their hackles could not be raised any further.

Montaron shrugged in her direction. "Bit o' fun while it lasted, girlie, but ye'll not find me working with a Harper."

"Nor we with a Zhent." Standing tall beside Jaheira, even Khalid had crossed his arms.

"There's none so insufferably righteous as Harpers," Xzar said with a loud sigh. "Come, Monty! The road beckons, and with more hospitality than we will find here."

"Should have known ye'd be trouble, ye goody-goody. A fine mess of complications beneath that curly hair." Montaron squinted up at her. "A last favor I'll do ye, and only the one: two-hunnerd gold ain't worth the bother. See if your Harper friends will have as much luck keeping that head attached proper. Mayhap you'll live out a tenday or more." He gave her a nod before turning around. "Come along, wizard! We be off, and quickly so."

"'Twas a pleasure," Xzar said, flourishing a bow he lost interest in halfway through, "...or something."

"Ought we try to hurry, you think? To beat them there?" Sajantha stared after the departing men—Zhentarim, truly?—as they maneuvered straight through the crowd towards the exit. Most hurried out of their way as if their haste were contagious.

"The roads are worse now than ever they've been," Jaheira said. "I would not count on two making the journey any faster than four. Our numbers may work to our advantage."

"What would the Zhent want with some backland Amnish mines, anyway?" said Imoen.

"You heard them: they'd no idea what's going on, either. And if the Zhentarim are truly behind this, why send their own investigators?"

"Zhents are not known for their honesty, child. Where'er there is opportunity to sow discord and profit from it, you will find them. However inaccurate the rumors may be, they are hardly implausible."

Sajantha folded her arms. "I don't know. They didn't seem so bad as that."

Jaheira's eyes widened. "They were Zhents!"

"They helped us—saved my life! I wouldn't be here without them. And I think we were just starting to get on together."

"It is good, then, that we are here, to keep you from being taken in by every passing stranger."

Sajantha nearly protested, then remembered the man at the bar. The assassin. "Well," she said, "thanks." But the assassin

Imoen shrugged. "They weren't so bad. I guess."

"Montaron knew of my bounty. 'Two-hundred gold', he said. They must have known."

"Guess so. Dunno how, though; I didn't let 'em read it."

"Yet they never tried to collect on it..."

"And why would they? We outnumbered them, even without all these guards around!"

Sajantha frowned. And made her decision.

She caught them—barely—just at the gates, and halted, out of breath.

Montaron did not even look at the sack of coins she held outstretched except to sneer at it. "Ye thinking to buy us off, there, sweetheart?" He crossed his arms. "I've as told ye plain we've no intent towards your bounty, and I wasn't speaking out me arse. You can keep that head of yours—and that purse."

"For services rendered," she insisted. "You kept your word. You brought us here. It may be shy of two-hundred, but I'd not have you—nor my conscience—hold me in debt." Despite the strain on her arm, she kept the bag hanging in the air between them.

The halfling gave it another glance. When he looked back at her, a grin twitched at his lips. "Like all good people, aye? We're squared off, then, and truly." Montaron held out his hand, and Sajantha grinned back as she dropped the purse.

He spoke as he tucked the coins into his own satchel, "Harpers they may be, but it's not the name what makes the man. And it's not the snake in the grass but the one in your midst ye'd best watch for." His pack secured with a snap, he gave her a sharp nod and turned to catch up with Xzar. "Speakin' of... Where ye be, blasted wizard? We're away!"

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Imoen took in her friend's empty hands and sighed. "You just gave them all our coin, didn't you?" But she couldn't do it, couldn't berate her. Sajantha was smiling. More 'n two hundred gold in there, easy, but of course she didn't know that. Didn't need to. And Imoen would just get ahold of it again; Sajantha didn't need to know the details of that, neither.

But that smile those Zhents had paid the bard back with lasted not at all long past their leaving, not when the Harpers wanted to know just what had happened to Gorion. Of course they would want to know.

And Sajantha didn't want to talk about it. Of course she didn't. So Imoen found herself in the role of storyteller, for once, while her friend looked on—still and silent and not interrupting—and the rapt attention of her audience was unsettling; it just figured the words wouldn't come out right. At least it was over quick enough. Straightforward. Imoen hardly knew enough to tell.

When she caught them up to speed, the couple shared a look. "And you've no idea who this man was?" Their eyes dragged Sajantha right back into the conversation, and she stirred.

"Not a man," Sajantha said, from the corner where she sat, arms folded tight around her. "A monster."

Plenty of monsters walked the Realms. Demons wouldn't stay planted in the Abyss, not when wizards felt free to pull them out. A monster, a demon? Who could say? Imoen hadn't seen him.

"Is... is there aught else you could tell us, Sajantha?" Khalid's voice was soft; it didn't scare Sajantha away, though she swallowed. Stared at the wall as she spoke.

"Lightning lit the skies, the hill," she said, "but nothing can light a creature of shadow. The ogres fell. My father... fell." Her shoulders curled over. "He told me to run. He told me to run and I did."

"Wasn't nothing you could have done," Imoen assured her. Sajantha's mouth was a thin, tight line as she turned away.


	7. Chapter 7 (Beregost)

The shadow that old stronghold had cast didn't have much of a reach, after all; it didn't hang over them for long. And once Sajantha was free of it, she perked right up.

"I can see much of Gorion's manner in you," Khalid told her, and you couldn't find a better compliment for that girl; maybe that's what did it. The man seemed to know just how to draw her out, too; by the first evening he got her to bring her harp out and everything. You couldn't make Sajantha play what wasn't on her mind—her heart—whatever she was feeling would just spill right out in the air, like the notes were pieces of her soul.

And when the song finished, she'd call them back. So you'd be floating right along with her—she pulled you along; you didn't have a choice—but who could mind? Flying and crashing with those soaring crescendos, but the music had to stop sometime, and it left you reeling.

This song played out different, though. Even sadder than anything for Miirym, which was saying something, as gloomy as those two could get. For Gorion, then, it must have been; it started out all soft and gentle, then strung right up high, a wavering note—like you were teetering on the edge with her—then plunging straight down. Sajantha called it back slowly, plucking those strings one by one til she built it back up.

Sajantha stayed still, head bent over her harp, like she always did in the hush, after—maybe waiting til the last vibrations stopped, til she and the strings both stopped shivering.

"Does it have words?"

Sajantha's head snapped up. "What?"

"Words," Jaheira repeated. "Have you any words to accompany it?"

Sajantha's mouth moved like she was searching for some words right now. "I didn't think it needed any," she finally said, and drew her harp back as the other woman stepped closer.

"It is only... this song reminded me of something, and I think it may be fitting."

Imoen couldn't see Jaheira's face, but Sajantha's grip loosened as she tilted her head. "Oh?"

The older half-elf knelt down, squatting in the dirt beside her, and Sajantha shifted to make room.

_"Iire cormamin lindua, elen sila lumenn ten'lle.  
Niire lanta, nan' ahnvae lanta, vithel.  
Amrum au'alet, ar' i'anar lumenna tirinin."_

"Elvish," Sajantha whispered. She propped her chin in her hands. "What does it mean?"

Across the campfire, Imoen sighed, kicking her heels out to turn around, to lean against a tree and face the other way. "Now, why didn't I think of that?" Really, she should have.

Beside her, Khalid cocked his head.

Imoen gestured. "Toss some new knowledge at her, a book or what-have-you, she'll dig right in and digest it for days." Sajantha'd have that Elvish memorized in minutes, figure out how to work it into her song by the end of the night. "I shoulda _thought_ of that, to get her mind off things." Buried in a book better than buried in her misery.

"I'd say st-staying alive was a far greater concern."

Or she could have been buried in the ground, right. "Could be worse, I guess."

Khalid glanced up at her. "Do you—do you know the words Jaheira spoke?"

"Elvish? Nah, I don't know a lick of it. Oh! '_Naug spanga_,' though; someone told me that, once. Is that a good one?"

He shook his head. "A small insult. _'Llie n'vanima ar' lle atara lanneina' _is b-better, though." His voice didn't stumble at all over the words; they flowed right off his tongue. Elvish, such a pretty language, just as pretty as them fair folk.

"Still sounds nice, don't it? Guess you can wrap up all kinds of nasty things in a pretty package." She shook her head. "But just how am I supposed to remember that! Got a shorter one?"

"N'uma." Khalid had managed a straight face this whole time, but now his eyes twinkled like a grin ready to peek out.

"I like it! What's that one mean?"

"No."

Imoen laughed. Took in Khalid's pleased face, and kept laughing. "So, you two grow up with the elves, then?"

Khalid's smile faltered, and Imoen distance dropped between them like he had scooted right away. Half-elves usually had a story, and from what Imoen had heard, most weren't the happy kind. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Or we can compare messed-up childhoods, if you want. I never even had no parents."

His smile faded out to faint, polite. His hand reached up to cover it. "It is—it is Jaheira's story, not mine. She was... v-very young. Her mother..." He shook his head. "We both picked up m-most of the language later on."

"So, um. That song, then. Just what did it mean; what was she saying?"

Khalid took a breath, and pressed his lips together as his pointed ears flamed red. "S'okay," Imoen hurried. "You don't want to..."

He shook his head, and cleared his throat:

_"When my heart sings, a star shall shine for you.  
Tears fall, but night falls, too.  
Morning comes again, and the sun shines brightest."_

The blush had crept across the rest of his face, almost as red as his hair in the firelight.

"Beautiful," Imoen assured him. And it was.

And Sajantha over there thought the same thing, too; the words floated right along on the wind, soaring up and down to match her music. "_Amrum au'alet..."_

Imoen glanced over at Khalid. "_Llie n'vanima," _she told him. "_Ar' lle atara lanneina,_" His smile peeked back.

* * *

"Two assassins," Jaheira mused. "Neither Candlekeep nor the Friendly Arm are without defenses. And to overcome Gorion... This is as serious as we had feared."

"Three, actually," Imoen pointed out. "Was another one in the keep, but the Watchers got at him, first."

Jaheira shook her head. "Then we can hope our own vigilance allows us to remain so fortunate. You've made it this far, yes? Sajantha is lucky to have a friend like you."

"Well, I didn't... I mean, I didn't really do nothing, did I? The first one, Sajantha took care of him herself, and at the Friendly Arm? That was all those Zhents."

Tarnesh. That was his name, the assassin at the inn. Imoen had asked the waitress about him, after. _Nice guy, _she'd said. _Good tipper, too. Just sweet as you please. Where'd he run off to? Pity he'd left without saying anything; must've met up with whoever he was waiting for. _Yeah, he sure had.

"'Nothing'?" Jaheira repeated. All tilted brow and squinting eye. "You are too hard on yourself. I think we would be waiting at the inn a long while yet, had you not been with her."

Imoen snorted. "Yeah, she'd sure get lost pretty easy, on her own."

Jaheira didn't reply. Didn't smile. And Imoen realized with a gulp what she'd meant. How long would Sajantha have hid under that bush, if no one'd ever come to drag her out? And just who would have, gibberlings?

Or wolves. Or assassins, or spikey monster-men, or Zhentarim_. _Hobgoblins. Wasn't no end of dangers. Imoen rubbed her forehead. "Was getting to be a lot of work, keeping her out of trouble." Her hand slid down to cup her chin, so she spoke through her fingers. "I'm—I'm awful glad you're here, now. You know? I don't..." She took in a breath. "I don't know how much longer I could have kept it up, all myself."

Jaheira stared at her a moment, then stood up and touched Imoen's shoulder, and all her tension flew free—like the wind knocked out of her—but a different kind of breathless. Boneless, exhausted. She slumped without meaning to.

"Relax," the woman said. "It's alright. You may rest, now. You may sleep."

And Imoen realized what that spell was, because she was yawning, already—like one of her potions had worn off, but not with the same numb crash, just gone. De-spelled.

And for a single frantic moment she knew that Jaheira could hurt her—she'd be free to go after Sajantha, now that Imoen was out of the way—a surge of adrenaline nearly carried her head away in a dizzying fright. She jerked up, heavy limbs half-cooperating.

"You've done more than any could ask of you," Jaheira murmured. "And it's time you rested."

Imoen struggled, blinking through the heavy fog of sleep resting like a blanket over her. "But, but I—"

"Hush. Gorion rests easier knowing you are at her side."

"But he didn't," Imoen mumbled. "He didn't _know_."

"No? He wrote us of you, as well."

"He... he did?"

"Aye," came the answer, and Imoen couldn't tell if Jaheira whispered it, or if it faded as she drifted off, letting that warm blanket cover her at last.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Hey—_hey!_ What are you doing?" Sajantha demanded. It was clear, though, what Jaheira was up to: rifling through her friend's packs while Imoen slept, oblivious. The action was clear—but the motive?

Jaheira stopped, only to give Sajantha a look as if it were _she_ being unreasonable. At least when Imoen dug through people's bags, she knew enough to be subtle. Mayhap Jaheira had noticed something gone missing. In any case, "You can't just—"

But the woman forestalled her, held up a small white bottle—then another one. "Do you know what these are?"

Sajantha didn't. She took a step closer, took them in her hand. "They're empty."

"Aye. Your friend's been drinking them. Diluted enough, and their effects can go unnoticed. But quite dangerous, for long-term use; they weaken the heart and eventually accelerate the aging process."

Sajantha stared at the bottles. _Haste potions. _"She was? Why would she...?"

Jaheira folded her arms. "Their short-term effects are far more beneficial. Alertness, enhanced perceptions, quicker reaction time. And they are often used as a stimulant, to compensate for lack of sleep."

At their feet, Imoen lay curled up in her cloak. She seemed especially pale in the wan moonlight. Sajantha swallowed. "I didn't know."

"Our elvish blood leaves us with less need for sleep," said Jaheira. "We should not forget that all do not share this same advantage." She brushed off her hands, leaving the bottles cold and clinking in Sajantha's palm as she walked off.

Imoen stirred, made a little smacking sound. Sajantha knelt, straightening her own cloak out over them both as she curled up at her friend's side, and Imoen nestled into her, found her shoulder for a pillow. Sajantha stared up at the stars with an ache in her throat.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Wh-why didn't anyone wake me?" Imoen kicked her cloak out of the way, then found herself still tangled in another one. The sun sitting well and high in the sky laughed down at her. "It's gotta be midmorn already!"

Sajantha appeared, holding out a small bowl. "High morn, actually. Didn't miss highbite, though; you hungry?"

"Starved." Imoen took the bowl, digging right in, eating fast enough she didn't even notice the taste til afterwards. "Mmpf. What is this?"

"Something Jaheira rustled up. I picked out most of the twigs for you." She sat down beside Imoen, hugged her legs. "So... how are you feeling?"

Imoen let out a sigh as she patted her belly, leaning back. "Ugh. Time for a nap, I think."

Sajantha didn't laugh. "You can take one, if you want."

"We done wasted half the day, already!" Imoen scrambled to her feet, ignoring the little wave in her head, in her stomach.

Sajantha stood more slowly. "We're staying around here, today. Jaheira's out gathering more berries or something." She paused. "And Khalid said he'd teach us some defense. If you want."

"What, like with swords 'n daggers? Wouldn't you rather be working at that spellbook?"

Sajantha gave a little half-shrug, holding one arm. "I'm sure it's a good idea. You said so, right?"

Imoen rubbed her neck. "Reckon I did, yeah."

* * *

"You read so well, better figure out how to read a map, now. We're almost to Beregost!"

"Really?" Sajantha straightened. "There's a great conjurer that lives nearby. Did you know? And Ulcaster's ruins aren't too much further—just think, a whole lost school of wizards! They say it's haunted, now." She finally closed her book.

"I don't know; pretty sure powerful wizards don't much like being bothered. Especially undead ones." Imoen wasn't impressed. "So, what's our great Volo have to say on Beregost?"

"Beregost? Well, there's the mage Thalantyr, as I said..."

"What's _in _Beregost? No more of your magic stuff; what about the town? This'll be our first time in a real city, aren't you excited?"

That blank stare was enough of an answer. "Gimme that here!" Imoen snatched the book from her, skimming the passages. "Tavern, tavern—aha! The Burning Wizard. 'Traveling minstrels...stay for free.'" That oughta do it; she snapped the guidebook shut. "There you have it: away with the book, out with the harp!"

"What? I—hey! Imoen!"

"C'mon, don't ya wanna play for a real audience? Them suck-up monks ain't nowhere to be seen. It's time to see if you're half as good as they all told you."

"Somehow I don't think playing for a bunch of drunks could be the best measure."

"You chicken!" Imoen laughed, swatting at her with the guidebook. "How are you ever gonna find what you're good at? I'll see you a famous bard if I have to do the legwork myself. I'll be your agent, get you contracts at all the best inns... you'll have your renown across the Sword Coast and beyond!"

"I don't want anything like that," Sajantha protested, eyes stuck on the book as Imoen gestured with it.

"It's not about what you want this time, but what you can do! You got to live up to your abilities; you owe yourself that much. And Gorion." She returned the book to her friend's arms. "He believed in you."

Sajantha bit her lip. "Aye..."

Imoen studied her. "We need to get you a pretty cape, first," she decided. That old cast-off gray one wouldn't do. "Something you can twirl all dramatically; folk love that stuff. What do you think: green, for your eyes? Red, to match your harp?"

Sajantha was quiet a moment. "My father, he had that silk cloak, with the embroidery? I think it was elvish. For special occasions." She glanced up.

"I remember. Blue, it is." They'd need a bit more of a disguise for her, though, what with that bounty notice flying about.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"You look a bit silly with that hat in your face."

"And I'd feel a bit sillier with a sword in my gut!" Her curls caused her no end of trouble; mayhap she'd be better off cutting them free. Sajantha tugged the wide-brimmed hat further down, and brushed off a loose feather. She'd owned the thing less than an hour, and it was already molting.

"There's spells for disguises," Imoen said. "I shouldn't have to tell _you_ that! Illusions. And something less conspicuous than a bird on your head."

Sajantha didn't know any of those spells. "I kind of like it."

"Sure you do. But it gets attention enough all its own—don't pretend you don't notice. Only thing weirder 'round here is that fellow making eyes at you across the bar."

Sajantha gripped the edges of the table to keep from spinning around to look. "Has he got any weapons? Does he look ready to use them?" Someone else after her bounty. That stupid hat was useless, twenty silver gone!

Imoen rolled her eyes and tipped back a drink before Sajantha could properly glare at her, before she could turn around to see for herself.

"If you two be as kind as you are lovely, perchance you might lend me your ears for a moment? I was filled with troubled sorrows, but now, to gaze upon the face of such loveliness, I have forgotten all else!"

Imoen's eyebrows shot up, her cup hiding what was no doubt a disbelieving grin.

For _this _was what they spoke of, naming young fools 'star-eyed': this young man standing before him, with shining eyes open wide enough to wonder at some vacancy within. For while he spoke, hand on breast, he gazed off as if posturing upon a stage visible only to himself.

"Which one of us you think he's talking to?" Imoen muttered in an aside, a stage whisper the fellow could not fail to notice, had he cared to.

In answer, he slipped down on the seat across them, reaching across the table to grasp Sajantha's hand. She drew back, startled, a feather from her hat bouncing between them. "Prithee, my lady—might I know a name to ascribe to such loveliness, that I may pen praises to your pure heart, perform poems for your pleasure?"

It was hard not to glare at Imoen. The other girl had grace enough to keep her laughter muted—or perhaps she was laughing so hard she could not breathe—but Sajantha couldn't dare look at her, lest the laughter take her, too. Her face was surely turning red from the effort of holding it in; a warmth crept up her cheeks.

"My name is Sajantha," she said, retrieving her hand, "but it doesn't really rhyme with anything; I've tried."

"Sajantha," the man repeated, enraptured.

And then: "Sajantha?" a voice echoed from behind, this one gruff and grim, and altogether lacking the lilting affectations of a minstrel.

A schick of metal, now, a stomp of boot, and Sajantha turned in time to see a blade swinging towards her face. She screamed.

It stopped; everything stopped. The sound hung in the air. The sword hung in the air.

And Sajantha peeked out beneath arms risen up to protect herself—futile—from the blade that waited motionless in the air. No—it moved—but barely.

The rest of the room hovered just shy of frozen; its occupants seemed so sluggish that she could take nine breaths for their one—but the blade would still finish its inexorable arc. The realization jolted enough to jerk her into motion. Sajantha threw herself aside, knocking first into one chair, and then another one, her clumsiness inconsequential with no one near enough—nor quick enough—to take advantage.

Another table between them, now, and she turned to look at her attacker, at this red-haired dwarf whose eyes were slowly widening, so slowly, trying to track her movement, and his mouth opened—

She heard his animal roar, then, and she heard a hundred things: the clatter of tableware as Imoen jumped up, shouting, chairs knocked aside as patrons scrambled for cover, screaming, a blur as time caught up—

And the blade bit down into the back of the chair she had been seated in. Across the table, Sajantha met the man's enraged eyes. His sword tore free of the wood with a grinding crunch, spitting splinters.

That could have been _her. _Winded, now, and her head hurt like the world still blurred around her, limbs too heavy to lift—like her arms and legs were made of lead—no, iron—decaying. She'd used up whatever advantage her haste spell might have left her. And there was nothing slow about him, now.

"Fear not, my lady!" The melody that followed the bard's cry set some spell upon the air, lent her a burst of confidence, of strength—or at least the illusion of it. Perhaps it was the same thing.

Sajantha faced her attacker. Music filled the air between them and she knew just what words to weave to it—to transfer her own fatigue to him:

_"Your steps slow as your speed's erased,  
Your feet will trip and halt your pace,  
Your lungs belabored, fatigue sets in;  
Your breath comes short, your vision spins.  
Slow your breath and feet alike:  
You stumble, once—and close your eyes."_

The bounty hunter's eyes stayed locked on her, even as he fought through the spell. He blinked... stumbled... and yawned.

A ringing smash echoed through the sudden quiet of the inn, and the dwarf crumpled to the ground. The innkeeper stood over him with a dented skillet. "Heh," he said. "There's some iron still good fer something."

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Not the first bit of trouble we've had 'round here." The innkeeper winked, like that might explain why he was so good with knots. Behind him sat the dwarf, tied up tight to a chair. With that lump on his head as big as that dent on the skillet, he sure wouldn't be moving anytime soon, anyway. "The guards are on their way." The innkeep hesitated. We've enough witnesses, should you need to be taking off." He'd seen that bounty notice, too.

"Thank you," Sajantha said, "I suppose that might be for the best. I'm awfully sorry for the trouble, sir."

He shrugged. "You think I care more about a couple chairs than the safety of my patrons?" He cleared his throat. "My reputation?"

"Shame about the skillet, though."

His concern got swallowed by a grin. "You ladies keep safe out there."

Decent fellow. Imoen dug through her satchel, left a handful of coins on the table. Few of them might've come from this very room, though; she tossed down a couple more.

Still early enough in the day, there was enough traffic outside to make Imoen's spine tingle. No wonder Jaheira hated towns so much; at least out in the wilds, you had a bit of warning before something jumped on you: you could assume any sound belonged to something dangerous. Here, though, any one of these folk sidling by casually could just spring for your back as they passed. Hard not to get dizzy, walking with her neck bent around like this, checking every single one. Maybe they should have just waited at the tavern for the Harpers. Like they were supposed to.

And, "Maybe it's not such a great idea for Sajantha the bard to be makin' noise. Keep your name hidden along with your hair, yeah?"

"You're a bard, as well? As am I!"

Imoen jumped. Eyes front for one second was apparently enough for someone to sneak up on her! The fact it was that minstrel from earlier made it even more humiliating. Her heart slowed back down; he wasn't hardly dangerous, at least. Just not so eager to see Sajantha go, if his puppy-eyes meant anything.

"Oh!" said Sajantha. Just as surprised, but her nice enough to cover it. "I never thanked you for your intervention, kind sir; you've my gratitude."

The young man's chest puffed up. "Nor need you, my lady; 'twas an honor to be of assistance. If you should e'er—"

"Thanks," Imoen cut in. "Really appreciate it, yep." Sajantha probably would've been polite to that dwarf, too, had she been around when he woke up. "But we'd really better go." She dragged Sajantha—who threw back an apology, but whose legs trotted along eagerly enough—a few more steps out of sight, and shook her head. "It's that hat."

"What?"

"How much you pay for it?"

Could have just been the shadow, but Sajantha's face looked as red as her hat. "More than I should have."

"It's got an enchantment on it. How'd you miss that?"

Sajantha sighed. She tugged the hat from her head, flinging it to the side. "I don't know." Her curls bounced loose; angry at being squished up, they sprung every which way.

"Like you need to worry about charming folk, anyway." A neat trick, though; no way Sajantha had missed it. Her face was definitely red.

"Didn't work on the bounty hunter, did it," she muttered.

"We'll go trade it in." Imoen bent to retrieve it, brushed it off. "Only missing a couple feathers. We'll get you something proper. I heard tell there's a magic shop out west."

"That's the wizard I was talking about! He's not a shop. I don't imagine he'd much like being bothered as a supply store."

No end of crotchety wizards, was there? "Bet he has some spell scrolls, though. Some disguise spells, maybe?"

Sajantha folded her arms together. "It doesn't matter whether I memorize magic or read it off a scroll; there's no way to rid myself of wild surges."

Imoen sighed. "Okay, never mind. Let's just get to the smithy; they're probably all stocked up by now." Hopefully the Harpers hadn't left yet.

Sajantha came to a stop. "Are we... are we going to tell them what happened?"

"You want to?"

Sajantha hesitated, then shook her head. "It was my fault. I said my name; I should have been more careful."

"They might wonder why we wanna take off right away."

"Mayhap. But I think Jaheira will be relieved enough our stay's a short one. "

"Rightly so." And Imoen would miss that warm bed, but not all the questions they'd have to deflect. Or arrows. Who knew how many more bounty hunters'd be crawling about?

They were almost to the smithy before Sajantha spoke up again. "That bard," she said, "I don't sound like that, do I?"

"Oh, boy," Imoen blew out a gust of breath. "Do you ever."

"You're kidding. You—you are kidding me, right? Imoen?"


	8. Chapter 8 (Nashkel)

"You look to be a man of fine taste and discernment."

Not that anyone around here could appreciate it. Was this fool claiming to know the difference? Only the truth of the statement kept the busybody from being flame-broiled for his interruption. Edwin lifted his chin. "And you look to be neither."

The dandy was not at all deterred. "Maybe you don't know who I am," he said with a grin, leaning forward so that his ridiculous feathered hat was in dangerous reach of Edwin's nose—and a fireball. "I'm Volo. Volothamp Geddarm? You've heard of me." And it was his assumption that so dug beneath Edwin's skin—because, all the more irritating—he had indeed heard of the gregarious nit. The only thing to recommend him.

"An ale for a tale! Buy me a drink, friend, and I'll share my—"

"Keep your babbling to yourself." The wineglass clinked beneath Edwin's nails as his fingers flexed. He summoned a glare, a substitute for the rampaging army of monsters he would much prefer to summon into being. "I am not your friend, and that you would ever suggest it speaks only of the most grating presumption or the most glaring idiocy. If you do not remove yourself from my presence at once, I shall be forced to introduce you to a _real _wizard's arsenal."

Edwin set down his drink. "And if your smoldering hat is not enough to decide you, rest assured I may dig about my spell pouch for a more convincing argument: I have in my repertoire a very real assortment of persuasive techniques." Not all of which involved fire; he should be so lucky.

The nincompoop drew back. "Well! If you're not interested, I'll simply find another to share my company."

Pay for his ales, he meant, though 'twas doubtful the twit would have any luck; likely he had already bled what goodwill he could from these peasants past tired of indulging his inebriation. It seemed Edwin shared something in common with these filthy farmers, after all: a distaste for that repugnant man. So be it.

He left the tavern in search of more suitable accommodations. Unfortunately, Nashkel only offered one other choice.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

The smithy waited right up ahead, along with Jaheira and Khalid inside it. Imoen turned to Sajantha before she hauled open the large door. "You think you coulda got that assassin to do anything? With your rhymes, I mean. Send him off dancing, or something."

"I'm not sure." Sajantha played with her necklace, tugging Gorion's ring along the chain. "I'd have to really want it, I suppose."

"You should try it." Imoen scuffed her feet, glanced down at the tracks of sawdust. "Maybe. Not dancing, you know? But if it's to protect yourself... you shouldn't hold back. Don't you think?"

"I..." Sajantha's curls bobbed as she gave her head a quick shake. "They always said... to be careful. Someone could get hurt."

"That's the thing, ain't it: these folk want to _kill_ you, remember? Won't stop til you're dead." Sajantha sucked in a breath, leaned back, but Imoen wasn't going to pull any punches here, 'cause Sajantha couldn't afford to, neither.

That bounty hunter's blade had come crashing down out of nowhere, and if her wild magic hadn't kicked in... "Someone's gonna get hurt, alright. Just so long as that someone ain't you." She touched her friend's arm, waited til she looked up. Blinking, though, Sajantha wiped her eyes. "Got it?"

"No." Sajantha sagged away and dropped her head into her hands. Her fingers hooked into her hair as she shook her head. _"No, _I don't understand any of this! Why is this happening—what did I _do?"_

"You—you didn't do nothing; no one's saying that! But we can't afford to worry about the 'why' just now, alright? There's other things need worrying, first." Like keeping her alive long enough to find out.

Sajantha stared at the ground, mouth working like she was trying to say something, trying to chew something. Trying not to be sick. Her hand clenched white over her amulet. "Do you know what his ring does?" she whispered, looking up just as the smithy door swung open between them; Imoen scrambled out of the way while Sajantha flinched back.

Jaheira's gaze swept across them both. "There you are," she said.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Smoke rose from the forge, adding some thickness to the air—like a coating to her throat, almost—dust, perhaps, for it got in her eyes as well; Sajantha dabbed at them. At least the warmth in here wasn't unpleasant; it settled over her as reassuring as her new sky-blue cape as she followed Jaheira into the smithy.

The woman hadn't asked a single question—didn't wonder what they were doing—as soon as they entered, she turned towards Sajantha. "Try this on," she said, thrusting a tangle of leather and buckles at her.

Heavier than it looked, it sent Sajantha reeling back a step. What were all those straps for? And here was an opening, but for head or arm? She flipped it around again; perhaps it would make more sense upside-down. Jaheira sighed, taking it back, and fastened it on while Sajantha stood stiff.

Almost as stiff as the leather itself. Quite ugly, its weathered surface was scuffed and mottled from oil—smelled a bit, too—but none were excuses the Harper might heed. "It'll chafe," Sajantha told her as Jaheira adjusted the straps: far too tight; she took in a deep breath.

Jaheira stepped back and examined it. Sajantha wiggled her arms—tried to. The armor hung right over her blouse and looped over her shoulders. "Maybe something softer, so I could move around a bit?"

Imoen's scrutiny was just as annoying. "Mages don't wear no armor on account of all their hand-waving, but you ain't got no excuse," she said helpfully.

Jaheira flagged down the smith. Her armor was leather, too, but it molded to her form, all lithe and supple, greens and browns perfect for blending into the forest. "It's only a chest piece," she said. "You'll be fine." Fine? She'd be lucky if she could walk in a straight line weighed down thusly!

"B-better than fine, we can hope," Khalid smiled. The assortment of nicks and scratches on his own armor didn't keep the metal from shining through beneath. Stronger than he looked, to haul such weight around; it didn't appear to give him any trouble. "It will do its job."

"And we'll do our job," Imoen nodded. "Makin' sure it don't need to."

Sajantha raised a hand to her chest. "What's my job?" The only thing she was good at was music, and if they had to keep a low profile, she couldn't even do _that._

"For now, listening to us." Jaheira's hands were on her hips as she glanced over Sajantha. "So keep that armor on; keep alive."

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"So what were you fixing to say 'bout your ring? Got some kind of enchantment on it, huh?" Gorion wouldn't have worn jewelry just to be fancy, 'course there'd be some use to it.

Sajantha was quiet a really long moment. "Something like that." She kept her eyes fixed-forward on the dirt path where Jaheira and her husband walked just up ahead. Not the best time, then.

"Hey, did you hear in the courtyard back there? Some bloke's done got a bounty on himself, for five thousand gold." Could only hope it knocked Sajantha's right out of the running; hers was still under four-hundred, if only just. "What do you think of that?" More interesting than talking about the weather, if she had to scramble after conversations. Nice and sunny, birds chirping, little breeze to the air—you couldn't ask for better traveling. Even Jaheira was smiling, though that could just be from leaving Beregost in the dust.

Sajantha turned her head. "What did he do?"

"Well, it's an official bounty, right; the Church of Lathander's what's posted it. So he must have done something bad. I mean, five-thousand? That's a fortune and a half."

Sajantha hugged her arms, rolling her shoulders a bit to shift her leather. Hopefully she'd get used to her armor sooner or later, even if it did look like she was wearing a box. "I can't imagine taking money to kill someone," she said. "You can say anything on a piece of paper. But even if they do deserve it—how do you know? How are you supposed to measure that, that one more death will draw them even?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're counting up by the number of bodies he's left behind. If he's dangerous, be a good idea to stop him, wouldn't it?" If they two raised enough coin, maybe they could post up just such a bounty on that horned fellow what killed Gorion.

"Is that what it's come to? Is that—is that what we're supposed to do, now? Go around killing people? It doesn't seem any more fair than the bounty they've pinned upon my own head!"

"It ain't the same thing, not at all; you didn't do nothing! Besides, I'm only talking of helping folk, taking care of the bad ones."

It didn't calm her down, none; Sajantha tossed her head, curls quivering. "But who _decides_ that?" Her voice dropped, almost a mutter, "Jaheira, I think she would have killed Montaron and Xzar as soon as looked at them. And simply on account of them being Zhentarim." Sajantha frowned. "She wouldn't listen to me."

Zhentarim, oh, boy. Imoen ran a hand through her hair. That shouldn't have come as a surprise at all, uneasy as them two had made her. "They weren't none too happy 'bout the Harpers, neither; don't you skew it. The Zhents _are _rotten folk; all the stories say. You should know! And don't you be saying they was a decent sort, now; they might've been nice enough to you, but you sure didn't know nothing else about them." Like just what sort of dark things Xzar had scribbled in his spellbook: one glimpse had been enough to leave Imoen queasy.

"Exactly!" Sajantha said. "Jaheira didn't know them, either." Her lips thinned. "So someone decided to put a bounty on this fellow, and mayhap they had good reason; I don't know. But I don't know what his reasons were, either. So who's to judge him, really? Who would dare?"

Imoen sighed. "The gods'll judge him, rightly so. And they'll judge us, too, for whether we let such things happen and turn a blind eye."

"But 'tis the god of justice who is blind," Sajantha said under her breath.

* * *

~*-{/=E=\}-*~

Nashkel was possessed of an inn, a tavern, and a preponderance of beslubbering yokels that filled them both. Edwin Odesseiron much preferred the inn, if forced to choose. And he was so forced; damn the witch and the Zulkir that had sent him after her.

The tavern's rotation of patrons was comprised of the same unwashed laborers lamenting their troubles over pints they could ill-afford, if their whining had any truth; at least an inn offered the potential for new blood.

Not that there was much in the way of travelers, of late. The roads were more than a little dangerous, to hear tell—and he was forced to, endlessly. Edwin had himself tangled with a handful of bandits on his journey—nothing he could not handle, though the brazenness alone had been galling enough to suffer! It was a death sentence to lay a hand against a Red Wizard, even if outside of Thay he was left to enforce it himself. Though the ill-chosen ambush had amounted to little more than an inconvenience, it had also been an uncomfortably sobering realization of just how far from his homeland he was: here, where his red robes were not deterrent enough for even the most lowly of brigands.

Brigands that had stirred up the entire coast, as rumor spoke. Rumor ran rampant here, like whatever diseases these unwashed peasants doubtless carried. And, like so many buzzing pests, Edwin had been unable to escape the local yammering about this iron business, either.

He had learned far more than he had ever cared to regarding the inhabitants of this insignificant town and their every trouble. Truly, these fools had so little in their lives worth mentioning that they had seized upon this single grievance to unite their voices and caterwaul in unison. Defective iron, bah! Unsurprising that such simple folk could not even manage their mines properly.

Nearly enough cause to fireball the lot of them, if it might accomplish anything more than relieving his frustration. But as this was the only establishment for miles worth speaking of, and his target had last been seen in the area...

Edwin grimaced. Thoughts of the Rashemi, as ever, soured his mood further. If the next tenday should pass without any sign of his quarry, he would be forced to raze these backland villages to uncover her sorry, scurrying hide—a prospect that should cheer him at least a little. Though it was far more likely the wench was camped in the wilderness somewhere beneath a rock, finding it more comparable to the barbarian lands of her origin.

He was not so pressed for time that thoughts of a jaunt through such wilds were at all appealing. The City of Coin, much farther to the south, boasted far more in the way of possibility, but it was unlikely the heathen witch would seek succor amongst comparably more cultured folk.

So be it. As reports had placed her in these western hills, he would simply maintain watch here, in this last civilized outpost (such a state of this land, that 'civilized' might ever apply to any part of it!), until the right opportunity arose.

Although every moment that passed brought him ever-closer to giving up on the town and its inhabitants entirely (as well as his task—to the Abyss with Nevron and his demons! Was this not an endeavor better suited for such minions? Galling, absolutely galling, that he might be considered such a tool to the Zulkir of his order). Nor were Edwin's finances invulnerable; he was hemorrhaging coppers with every day this dragged out. Even his wine had grown a sour tinge, and the vintage had been poor enough to begin with.

Opportunity did not knock, then, no; it swung open the weather-beaten doors to the Nashkel Inn with a swagger that drew every eye. But with so little in this town worth remarking, even a common Waterhavian trollop might find herself worthy of a stare.

Edwin rubbed his beard as he studied the woman. So few chances had presented themselves, this one he could not afford to overlook.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Bandits have set up an ambush in our path." The dappled shadows of the wood nearly obscured Jaheira as she glanced back. "Five of them."

"Can't we go around them?"

Khalid nodded. "We aim to, b-but they may have scouts: best keep wary."

Some manner of magic must have alerted them, for neither of the two had left their sight. "How do you know?" Sajantha asked.

"I am a druid of Silvanus, and nature has no secrets from him. None who intrude upon his lands may do so unnoticed."

"Wow!" Imoen's eyes were wide. "So, uh, if you can talk to animals, then, think you could rustle us up a ride? You know, ask some deer or something to carry us. This here pack is getting awful heavy."

Jaheira's expression wavered between offended and exasperated as she tried to determine whether Imoen was kidding. "That is not how it works."

Sajantha leaned towards Imoen. "_I_ thought it was a good idea. Except for how we none of us know how to ride anything, never mind deer."

"Took a few turns on ol' Nessie, I did. Reckon a deer can't be all that different. Probably fall off more, but the going would be faster in between, at least." She shrugged, then looked back at Jaheira. "So what if these bandit folk see us? What do we do?"

"You've a bow, do you not? Keep back."

Imoen glanced down, tugging at the strap of her quiver, and Khalid reached out to touch her arm. "Have you ever k-killed anyone?"

Imoen glanced at Sajantha, then at the ground. "Nah. I mean—an ogre. I helped take down an ogre. He was pretty big, though; easier to hit." She swallowed.

Neither of them looked at Sajantha, as if the truth hovered like a line between them, not to be crossed. _Have you ever killed anyone?_

Sajantha's ring chilled her palm, cold as she grasped it._ Your magic could be dangerous, not just to you. _For a moment, the assassin again breathed hot on her ear, and she shivered.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Imoen had been kidding about the deer. She'd been kinda kidding about the talking to animals, too—and the way Jaheira had glared had tossed that possibility right out of her mind—so who would have expected this?

_'That's not how it works,_' ha. Imoen took a step back from the wolf, cleared her throat. "So, um. So just how does it work?" she asked it.

The wolf shook itself, leaned forward and stretched, just like a dog—a really big and fang-y one—but as it straightened, it kept growing. Up. And then it was looking her right in the eye, staring out with Jaheira's familiar green ones.

"Hi," Imoen gave a little wave. "You, uh," she touched her chin, "you missed a spot."

Jaheira wiped her mouth.

Imoen looked at Sajantha, who snapped her own mouth closed like she'd been gawking and just remembered not to. "Did you know she could do that?" She looked over at Khalid. "Did you...?"

Khalid glanced up from cleaning his blade to laugh at them. Even his laughter was sweet, though, you couldn't hold it against him. Imoen grinned back. "It's difficult to get used to," he chuckled. But the way he smiled after Jaheira as she spat some of that bandit blood onto the ground, he'd obviously been used to it a long while.

"Now _that's_ what I call love."

Sajantha stepped carefully over one of the bodies. Or a piece of one. "If I turned into a monstrous beast and start clawing people apart, would you still love me?"

"Aw," said Imoen, "you really think you have to ask? Just... try not to. Because, ew."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

For being the center of the troubles, for so many paying it heed, Nashkel hardly looked like it even deserved a spot on the map at all. Aside from the handfuls of outlying farms, the low, flat buildings that made up the town proper all could have fit within Candlekeep's walls.

Not half so tidy a town as Candlekeep, though—nor even Beregost, with its paved streets all lined with cobbled brick houses—Nashkel was a farm-town of worn, wooden buildings all scattered a stone's throw from each other, built on top of dust and covered in it, too.

Mayhap it had seen better days, but many days ago it must have been; the layer of dirt coating the whole place looked to be a permanent fixture. Only the shining soldiers on patrol seemed free of it. And there were plenty of guards about, far more than even the townsfolk, surely.

"As if the Iron Crisis wasn't trouble enough, Volo's blasted review done cut my business in half," the storekeep grumbled.

Sajantha looked up from the window as another patrol passed by. "Volo! Volo was here?"

"Still is, I expect. Probably leeching about at the tavern; he sure ain't welcome in here."

"Imoen!" Sajantha crossed the shop to find her friend poking at some weapons on display. On the other side of the shelves, Khalid and Jaheira were busy selecting some supplies. "Did you hear that?"

"Eh?" Imoen dropped the arrows she'd been examining. "What?"

"The tavern! Let's go to the tavern."

Imoen glanced around, affecting a huge yawn as she stretched onto her toes. "Better head

to bed, seems about that time."

Jaheira frowned at the wall as she pulled a small case from it. "It's hardly past Highsun."

"And all that hardriding's got us tired out good."

Jaheira turned towards her husband. "Khalid—"

"No, no, don't trouble yourself. We can see ourselves out."

Jaheira's eyes slid to the storekeep. "It is not safe for you to be wandering—"

"But there's a whole legion of guards around, just look at them."

"Yeah," Imoen added, "this place is filled with more suits than an armory."

"You'll be heading straight to the inn, then?" Jaheira raised an eyebrow. "Very well. We'll finish up here, and meet you after we speak to the mayor." She returned her attention to the supply wall.

Imoen tugged at Sajantha's arm, pulling something from her sleeve, "Is there magic on this?"

Sajantha turned the arrow over, examining it, though she had the answer the moment she touched it. "Aye, there's some manner of sharpness spell upon it. For piercing armor, I suppose?"

Imoen nodded, setting it down onto the counter. "Better stock up a few." She winked at the storekeep. "On their tab—thanks!" She turned back to Sajantha. "Got cleaned out back in Beregost, I did, with all that gear for ya. And looks like pickings'll be slim enough, in these parts."

"If the rumors are true, could be more going on than there seems."

"And the tavern's a good place to start?" Imoen grinned, and Sajantha nodded: they ought to have a good while free before meeting the Harpers at the inn.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Okay, so what's in this tavern?" Didn't look like much, really; about what you'd expect in a run-down town, pretty dark and dim: not near enough windows, and the ones they did have covered in a film of grime. The dark, though, that was all the crowd within, these poor sods that couldn't even glance up from their cups. Winthrop'd have a thing or two to say on that. Hire Sajantha to play a tune, maybe, after he'd set Imoen to scrub the place til it shone. Nobody here cared enough to do either.

"Oh!" Sajantha clutched her hands together. "There he is: Volo—it's Volo!"

"Huh?"

She lowered her voice. "Volothamp Geddarm?" Her hands drifted towards her pack. "Do you think he'd sign my book?"

Imoen tried not to sigh. "I'm not standing anywhere near you, you keep saying things like that."

Sajantha gripped her arm. "Do you think we should go talk to him? Let's go talk to him." She didn't wait for an answer; Imoen stumbled after her as Sajantha tugged her along.

"Hullo, sir." A couple steps away, and Sajantha's feet had slowed like she was dragging them through molasses. "You probably don't remember me..."

"Now, don't dismiss old Volo so quickly." He cocked his head, feathered hat bouncing. Guess them silly things were in style, after all. "Pull up a chair, and let's have a look at you." His smile wavered a bit, watery, like he had to keep grabbing back at it to keep it from slipping; with his half-lidded eyes his whole face seemed to be dripping off. Either he couldn't hold his liquor, or he'd been sitting here soaking in it a long while. "I never forget a pretty face."

"Take about ten years off it," Imoen snorted.

Volo settled back, giving Imoen a glance for the first time. "Perhaps you might refresh my memory...?"

"Well, it was a ways back—aye, about ten years—when you were working on your _Guide to all Things Magical._ In Candlekeep."

"Candlekeep, of course! You were, eh..." He squinted. "One of the, uh, the tall fellow's—"

"Gorion," she said softly. "I'm Gorion's daughter."

"Oh, that's right. Gorion's little girl, of course. Uh—"

"Sajantha," she prompted.

"Sajantha! That's it. On the tip of my tongue, it was." He winked.

Sajantha beamed. Imoen rolled her eyes. And sent them on a quick look 'round the bar, but no assassins looked about to leap upon them. Forget a disguise, better get that girl to keep her mouth shut. Good thing no one in here cared; she could probably start screaming 'fire' and not get so much as a blink.

"How is the old man, then?"

"He's... he's dead."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. A toast, my friend—to the memory of the departed." He raised his glass; it was empty. "A round for Gorion?" he pressed Imoen.

Her eyes caught on Sajantha's downcast face, and she dropped a few silver on the counter. "A round for Gorion," Imoen agreed.

"May tales of him grow in the telling."

"For Gorion," Sajantha whispered, and tipped back a gulp, making a face. So silver didn't stretch so far, here; Imoen should have sprung for one of the better brews.

Enough for her to warm up, though; Sajantha pushed her nearly-full ale to the side as she leaned towards Volo. "So, in your book—in the chapter on 'Innate Talents'—I was wondering if you'd perhaps had a chance to research any more on it? Since after the Godswar, and all. There's not so much written on it, but you mentioned wild magic."

Going by the man's squint, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been sober, never mind something he'd written half a score ago. "Wild magic? Aye," he wiggled his fingers in a vague gesture. "Not so much known of it, no. Not a field of study most would dare to pursue. Now, I, of course, wouldn't let such a thing hold me back—but the truth is, there simply aren't enough occurrences of it to make for any sort of predictions... not worth the investment of time... far too dangerous... you understand?" He nodded to himself. "Better find yourself another hobby, sweetheart."

Sajantha glanced down at her cup. "I suppose."

And maybe Imoen should have remembered that Sajantha hadn't drank before—not near enough to mention—and didn't have no tolerance for alcohol. But who here wasn't drinking to forget their troubles? Only Volo seemed to be enjoying it; the rest of these folk looked married to misery. And as Sajantha's tankard emptied, she joined right with them; the light in her eyes got a little more dim, a little more desperate.

She reached for another drink—

"Don't think so." Imoen grabbed her arm. "We're off," she said, tugging at her friend.

"But, Volo..."

"You don't need the attention of a slurk-winker like that." Imoen hauled Sajantha out the door—a dead weight, that girl—then came back around to dig in her pocket for a few more coins, tossed them at the bar—tossed Volo a bit of a glare—and stepped outside to join Sajantha.

Only she couldn't find her.


	9. Chapter 9

"Why, yes." Sajantha's voice carried pretty far; it took Imoen a moment to figure out just where from. A few people were hanging about on the gravel pathway through the center of town—and—yep! Sajantha was one of them. Her curls peeked out under her blue hood as she tossed her head. "Greywolf. As you say; I am no other."

The man in front of her beamed, bouncing almost as much as his belly as he reached out a thick hand. "Please accept this meager sum, as well as the heartfelt thanks—"

Imoen hurried up to them. "What's gotten into you? One ale and you're sodden as a slurker!" The fat man's hand hadn't lowered; he opened and closed his mouth like a giant fish as Imoen waved him away. "She's just kidding. She look like a big, scary fellow to you? 'Greywolf', heh."

The man blinked, shook his head a little, then frowned. "I would not—but who else...? You—you're not Greywolf, the bounty hunter?" He took a step back, his hand flying to his face. "Oh, sweet Helm! I, I'm sorry, ladies." He gave Imoen a shaky smile. "Though I thank you for your honesty. If the captain should have heard of this..." He shot Sajantha a look, bit his lip, and took right off.

Sajantha just stood there—well, wavered a little, unsteady—and crossed her arms. "I wasn't going to take his money," she protested. "But if I can pretend—" She squared up her shoulders, "if I can pretend, why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I be someone great and fierce and strong? If I have to... if I have to be here..." She lost track of that thought—her belligerence turning to bewilderment—and confused by her own confusion, cranked that belligerence right back up. "Why shouldn't I?" she glared.

"'Cause at some point you're gonna have to back it up, that's why! You're just asking to get called out, here." Maybe getting some food in her would soak up all that ale.

"My father always said I could be whatever I wanted. I just have to believe it. Believe in me. He said..." Sajantha squinted, like it was words she was trying to read, getting all blurry. "He..." She hiccuped.

"Didn't say you could _do_ whatever you wanted, though."

Sajantha's chin tilted up. "I could be Greywolf. Tell people. No one'll know. Somebody they're scared of. A bounty hunter," her eyes flashed bright, "not a bounty."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Imoen hadn't wasted any time herding Sajantha to the inn where she ordered them some food, watched as Sajantha ate it. She wasn't even hungry, not really, but Imoen hovered over her with all the attention of a hawk—no, a hen, the way she was fluttering about.

Making her dizzy. "Sit down," Sajantha begged, as her friend split into two, blurred together.

And Imoen turned solid again, settling onto the bench beside her. "Jaheira 'n Khalid'll be back soon. Just any minute, now. Hurry and dry up, here."

The ale was wearing off, leaving her with a distant warmth and a far nearer nausea. "I'm _fine." _Sajantha took another bite. Some mealy roasted fowl; it took a lot of concentration to chew, and even more determination to swallow as it fell apart in her mouth.

"So fine you're still lookin' at me cross-eyed. For Tymora's sake, Sajantha, just keep away from the alcohol, alright? You ain't got the constitution for it."

"Don't tell me what I haven't got. I've half a mind to... to..."

Imoen raised her eyebrows. "To what? 'Half a mind' is right. Quit blowharding, you haven't got nothing."

"I have so." She had a feeling, deep-down and building steadily, like a flame warming inside her: "I don't want to be a bounty anymore." The certainty rose to envelop her; she leaned forward, striking the table for emphasis. "That's not what I'm going to be."

"That so? Just what you gonna be, then? Still set on 'Greywolf'? He might have something to say about that."

Sajantha sagged back. "Why, is he here?" Not that it mattered; Greywolf wasn't who she wanted to be, not at all: it was who she _didn't_. Sajantha could not be Sajantha, anymore. And why should she? The girl Sajantha had only the clothes on her back, a bounty on her head, and nothing else. No home, no father. No purpose.

"Don't think so. But someone..." Imoen pursed her lips, eyes locked over Sajantha's shoulder. "Don't look now! But, there—behind you—a man's watching us."

"A bounty hunter?"

"Not like any of 'em before, if he is."

Sajantha pushed her food around with her fork, gave it a poke. Hard to feign interest in eating, now; at least she had an excuse not to. "Does he look dangerous?" Not that _that_ meant anything. "You'll tell me if he looks about to jump up and stab me, won't you?"

"Nah," Imoen's mouth twitched, "I think he's just interested in lookin' for now."

Sajantha sighed. "This isn't going to be like that minstrel, is it?"

"Mm. Not like the minstrel, nope, not a bit."

"A mysterious stranger..." Sajantha rolled her eyes as she imagined the man Imoen was conjuring for her. "Alright, let me guess: tall, dark, and handsome, is he?"

Imoen barked out a laugh and clapped her hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking.

And just what did _that_ mean? Torn between a curiosity and an irritation that warred over her patience and together defeated it, Sajantha frowned. And turned around.

"Don't—" giggled Imoen, "don't look now—"

But how could she not? Her sight awash in a cascade of crimson, Sajantha blinked to stem the tide of color that confronted her. Glowing with the sort of vibrancy she'd seen only in that flamedance ring, the same reflective, deep hues flowed across the cloak spilling over his shoulders. And of jewelry—well, the man had plenty of that, too—rings sparkled across his fingers as he reached for his wine. Even his bracers were inlaid with stones.

Perhaps stranded here due to the bandits—or the iron shortage—utterly spotless, he had certainly not been on the road recently. The only part of his face free of his hood was a hard jawline and the beard close-cropped over it.

And he was most definitely _not_ looking at her. Thatmust have been the joke all along, very funny, Imoen—but as Sajantha started to say it, to turn back to her friend—the words dried up in her mouth. Because the man had tilted back his head—his hood—leaving enough light now to reveal a narrow face: thin lips, high cheekbones, and dark eyes that were suddenly very muchlooking at her.

Warm and growing warmer, Sajantha's heart pumped heavy in her chest, flushing all her heat to her face. She swiveled back, gripping the table as her vision swam.

"Three," Imoen mouthed.

"What...?" Had she heard right? Had she heard anything over her heart pounding in her ears?

A smile spread across Imoen's face. "Gold. Three _thousand, _I bet. He sure don't need the coin for your bounty, nope."

That made even less sense! "Then what does he want?"

"We-ll," Imoen drawled the word out into an obnoxious length, "We're not all _that _hard to look at..."

"Oh, aye, I've often been told that of the _back of my head." _With her hands clenched in her lap, she wouldn't be tempted to run them through her hair, with her eyes fixed on her friend, she wouldn't be tempted to glance backward again. "Come off it, he must be half-again our age! Why would he—" Sajantha broke off as her friend's grin stretched wider.

Imoen licked her lips. "Let's go ask him."

"I'm not sure he's really your type..." Sajantha pushed her plate away and shifted back.

"'My type'?" Imoen hooted. "He's rich; that's all the type I need." And in the sparkle of her eyes, her intention at last shone clear. "You sit there and finish your lunch, then, like a good little girl. That'll be nice and interesting, yep."

"Imoen—" Sajantha reached for Imoen's wrist, but the other girl slipped from her grasp with ease, hand twisting to tug Sajantha with her. "Don't."

"'N why not? You come along. We'll see what he wants. Ain't proper not to introduce ourselves, is it?"

It must have been the alcohol that tingled down every finger, that made each heartbeat especially momentous. Sajantha shook her head. What was Imoen saying? So someone else would overhear? Even if he wasn't a bounty hunter, that did not mean the room was free of them; they had learned that in Beregost. And this man didn't look the sort to jump in and play the hero.

Sajantha stood, head spinning. Introduce herself. But she could not be Sajantha; it wasn't safe. Wasn't smart. "Imoen...?" But her friend was gone, tossing back a wink as she disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Left her—Imoen had left her. Standing there like a fool, like a confused little girl who'd had too much to drink and whose head was still swimming. Sajantha's stomach twisted. She could race after her, follow Imoen down the hall. She could. That was something Sajantha would do, right? _Run_. But she didn't feel much like Sajantha, now, didn't feel much like running; with that ale still lingering in her veins, she felt like something else. Some_one_ else. She took in a breath.

Perhaps he was a bounty hunter, perhaps he was not. She turned and faced the red-cloaked man with her hands on her hips. "What do you want?"

His chin lifted up, sending his eyes into shadow. "Do you speak to me, girl?"

"I could not but notice your eye upon me, sir." Were she loud enough to summon it, perhaps the attention of an audience might stay his blade. Sajantha straightened. "Have you a problem with me?" _Have you a blade with my name upon it?_

Blade or no, the man's gaze pierced sharp. "I will tell you what I do _not_ have: tolerance for wittering brats who know not their place." Thickened with scorn and a heavy accent, his voice flowed richly as his fabrics. "Leave me in peace, or leave here in pieces."

No weapons, at least not visible. But that cascading cloak obscured more than a little of his garments. She tilted her head. Perhaps she did not need to pretend, after all? "You don't know who I am?"

"I know that you are disrupting my meal." His eyes returned to his plate as he reached for his food. "Know that you continue to do so at your peril."

That didn't seem right, not at all. Sajantha frowned. "You're certain you don't know?"

His fork clattered against his plate, manicured fingernails clicking against the worn edges of the table as he pushed back his chair. "I will not be questioned by your like! Are your wits so dim that this is unclear?"

Surely as she herself, this man did not belong here. So just what was he up to? "I don't believe you," she said.

He squinted up at her, narrowed eyes even darker beneath the shadow of his hood. "Fine." He bit the word off, his accented voice sharpening its edge. "This is no strain for my superior analyzation techniques; I can see through you readily enough. Perhaps I know exactly who you are." His voice dropped to a mutter, "Though why she presumes I care is a far greater mystery."

He peaked his fingers together, pointing them towards her as he tipped his head. "This insistence that I have heard of you is puzzling, considering you have yet to unpack the instrument cased on your back: you are either attempting—and failing, miserably failing—to remain inconspicuous, or you lack faith in your musical abilities. A strange contradiction, though given your sparse collection of spell components," —here, he eyed her poorly-stocked belt— "I highly suspect the latter. (A handful of sulphur and everyone fancies themselves a wizard.) One can only assume your musical talents are no better developed than your magical ones."

Sajantha drew herself up. "That's hardly—"

He was faster: "Your hesitations, your glances towards the door, tell me you did not arrive here alone, and are eagerly awaiting others to join you. At least one from outside, though the other..." he shifted to point back down the hall.

His casual posture sharpened, alert, into a single movement—a sleeve shot out—and a muffled "eep!" emerged as his grip connected.

_ Imoen! _

_"_You_ dare?" _His face turned nearly as red as his garments."Maladroit miscreant! Remove your hand from my pockets at once or draw back a stump! You think your fingers are so much quicker than mine own?" Quite literally, he had the upper hand—Imoen's own hung limp from his grasp. "I am no slack-jawed rube to remain oblivious to your designs. Hand over whatever you have removed, or you will lose far more. I will not be pawed at by inept malefactors! A monkey could do a better job."

Tears in her eyes at the strength of his grip—or possibly mortification at being caught—Imoen gave Sajantha a miserable look as he twisted her arm.

Sajantha leapt forward. "Let go of her!"

His dark gaze connected with a lurch. "Did you mean to distract me whilst your friend pawed through my belongings? (Ungrateful pilchards! As if my time were not valuable in itself.)"

Could that have truly been Imoen's aim? Likely, but—the truth of it didn't matter. Sajantha gave her head a shake, glaring back at him. "Get your hands off her right now."

He sneered down at Imoen. "Your cack-handed comrade is none the worse for wear, though that may be remedied quickly enough." Imoen's eyes widened.

Anger or fear or the residual alcohol swirled in her head, filled her, brought Sajantha another step closer as she leveled a finger at him in warning. "Don't you touch her! Don't you dare. I know more than enough magic to—to set afire your hair!"

"My hair...?" he repeated, nonplussed, though unconcerned with the threat. She could hardly see aught of his face below his hood, never mind any hair.

"Your beard," she growled, snapping her fingers near his chin, a flash of light implying the smallest spark of flame.

No villager to be intimidated by such predestigations, the richly-dressed man began to laugh. At least he had let go of Imoen; she spun to face him from Sajantha's side.

"You think to best me with your parlor tricks?" he chuckled as he rose to his feet. His red clothing—robes—swept the ground. With his cloak thrown back, his belt was easy to spot, lined with dozens of small pouches and compartments. A mage's arsenal.

Standing, he was tall enough to lean well over her. She tried not to step back, she really did—but the knowledge was spreading, sickeningly: the flutter in her chest had plummeted to tremble in her legs.

"You think to challenge me, little sorceress? Do you imagine your inbred magics are a match for years of study?" He bent so that their faces were level, his jewelry glimmering in the dim light. His accessories no longer seemed flashy so much as deadly—a gemmed headpiece, a pendant, bracers, rings and earrings—all of which were surely filled with enchantments, enough to elevate even a novice caster well beyond her.

And this was no novice. "I have been fluent in the arcane far longer than you have even been alive, girl. You wish to show me how it's done? Very well. Go on, then."

Her father's ring—her only magical item—pulsed against her breast.

"Go ahead," he prompted, when she did not move. "I will even allow you the first strike." He raised his arms. "Any spell, your choice."

No spells, perhaps, but she had her wits, she had a ring, and, aye: she had a choice. Ignoring her dizziness, Sajantha stared up at him. "Do your worst," she told him, "what spell you speak will strike you first." The air shimmered around her, a ripple bubbling outward until only a gleam in the air marked its presence. Expended of its stored magic, her father's ring chilled her chest.

Surely such sharp eyes would be possessed of enough spellcraft to identify the weave. "Hn." His gaze returned to her with an even sharper scrutiny. "(Far more clever than she looks. Which is not saying much, but there it is.)" Thumb and forefinger stroked along his jaw.

At her side, Imoen let out a breath. Perhaps the shield possessed strength enough to reflect any spell the wizard chose to loose, though he no longer seemed inclined to pursue a duel; his guarded face had taken on a speculative cast as he leaned back.

"I heard there were travelers..." A voice came from behind, as unexpected as it was unfamiliar. It swelled to fill the room with a portentous echo, enough to drag Sajantha's attention from the mage. She turned to find the inn near-emptied, a leather-clad woman standing where patrons had been earlier. "I was hoping it would be you."

That tingling on her neck, that crawling up her spine—it could not be simply from leaving her back open to the wizard. Sajantha swallowed. "I'm sorry. Do I know you...?" Beneath her cloak, her hand slid towards her belt, to her father's dagger.

"No," the newcomer said, her voice as careless as the breeze blown in behind her. "But I know you." She smiled, a pretty smirk—a _predatory_ smirk—as she tossed her short blonde hair.

"Sajantha!"

The dagger clattered against the ground.

Sajantha did not need Jaheira's warning, did not need to look up to see the two Harpers outlined in the entryway as the door clicked shut behind them—she did not need to look up, for she _could _not, for the woman—the bounty hunter—held her by the throat.

_"May the Lord of Shadows guide you swiftly to your death."_


	10. Chapter 10

"Sajantha!" Imoen cried, sword out and swinging as she cut through the distance between them.

Fingers tightened around Sajantha's neck—darkness flecked her vision—and as the bounty hunter pivoted, the ground disappeared: Sajantha found herself hurtling straight for Imoen's outstretched blade. A quick rasp as it winged her leather armor, and then the sword clanged, tossed to the floor before they collided above it. As Imoen scrambled to retrieve her weapon, the other woman's voice rose: her intonation a spell, but its intention a mystery.

Some manner of magic crested over them, nothing familiar in it—not arcane magic, then, but divine. Sajantha gripped her necklace and prayed its spell had held. A hushed bubble expanded til it burst in her ears, popping outward. Sajantha broke through it with a shout—she staggered up to her feet as the last traces of the ring's protection dissipated.

Halfway to her feet, Imoen stopped. Halfway towards them, the Harpers' charge had halted, too. Stillness held the room in thrall, but for a single burst of footsteps and a door clanging shut as they faded. Behind the counter, the innkeep crouched down, and at the nearby table, the wizard took a sip of wine.

Sajantha pushed her hair from her eyes and the bounty hunter's gaze fell upon her, a smile crawling onto her face. "So you've resisted my magic, have you?" Teeth bared, she unslung a club, a wicked dark weapon. "How will you fare against this?" Its tip hit the ground with a dull thud to announce its heft, a ringing rasp as she dragged it.

Sajantha took a step back. Not even iron, for her to hope it might disintegrate: when the club collided with her, would its wood splinter at all, or just her skull? She could taste blood on her teeth.

Resist? How! She didn't have a plan! She didn't have—she didn't have anything. No offensive spells. She scrambled backward past the table, and the wizard calmly slid his plate out of the way, otherwise ignoring them.

Another table between her and her attacker—not protection enough, but another moment to come up with a plan. An attack. But just how did one attack without any offensive magics? Not _fair. _She circled behind another table.

Across the room, her friends were frozen. The remaining patrons stood equally still—had they, too, been caught in the spell? Or perhaps it was fear, not magic, locking them in place as they watched the one-sided battle from the safety of the sidelines. _Not fair, not fair._

Just outside, the guards patrolled. If her screams were loud enough, might they hear? Might they _act? _No one in here seemed inclined to so much as alert them on her behalf. Sajantha clenched her fingers so tight her nails bit her palms. Damn these Amnish—and this bounty hunter—and the wizard who still sat watching—damn the lot of them! She did not mean to allow some half-dressed tart to profit at her expense; what an undignified end!

The woman strolled towards her. No room, now, Sajantha had cornered herself beside the fireplace. Her harp's weight hung heavy on her back. What did she have? Time to unpack it? The harp was devoid of enchantment: the real magic was in her voice. In _her._ Its certainty thrummed through her, a song all its own.

So, what did she have? Wits, if she could grasp them. No offensive spells? It did not have to mean she was defenseless. Her battle would not be with weapons, then, but words. Would it be enough? Just the slightest hesitation, and the woman's hold on the holding spell would fail. Her friends stood as statues around them.

Sajantha squared her feet. "You find yourself wondering," she said, projecting her voice to boom through the room, "who is this target, that such a reward might escalate—more valuable for every hunter come after her that's slain? You find yourself wondering how many preceded you, how many died in vain—and what number you will be."

She didn't need her instrument for this, did she? "You find yourself wondering what price to place upon your own life—if a handful of gold is worth your last breath."

The woman shuddered, took a step back, and shook her head. "Enough talk," she growled. The weapon glowed in her grasp. "You die now!" The rest of the room faded out: there was only Sajantha and the figure springing towards her. Too fast for words to slow.

Maybe not every word, though. Draconic. Miirym's voice swelled within her, a far deeper confidence. Sajantha knew spells, knew far more than she had ever dared to speak. Behind her, the fire slept, quiescent. But the dragon had told her how to make it _roar. _

_"Ixen voenllyl ve!"_ she called to it.

The wild heave of her magic bucked and beckoned beneath the spell that struggled to contain it, threatening to send her words—her self—flying: she tried to hold on, but like a wave it filled up inside her, a surge that trembled through her core and down every limb. Her ears rang. Filled now with certainty—a terrifying thrill, as she opened her fingers and gestured, the fireplace loomed large—_larger_—red.

And then they all saw red. Because she wanted them to.

The flames roared and howled, and Sajantha stood in the midst of them and forgot to be scared, because she had done that—she had_ done that, _this dancing inferno—and the alarm on her attacker's face and the way she staggered back provided a satisfying rush as well.

The flames crackled, they smoked—they even sent off heat—though they did not spread farther than a few feet around her; they did not eat up the floor, however they licked at it. It was little better than a cantrip, really, and though her wild magic had elevated into something more convincing, it was still an illusion. But the bounty hunter didn't know that. Combined with the very real smoke of the fireplace, it made for a convincing enough deception.

Off-balance, now, wary, the woman raised her arm up; ducking beneath it, she squinted through the smoke and coughed. But how long before she noticed the flames were not feasting, that the floors remained unravaged beneath them? How long before she recovered, before she saw how the flames did not—could not—destroy? How long before Sajantha's friends awoke, before the guards arrived?

Sajantha just needed time. She climbed onto a chair—her stage—and stared down.

"Hearken thus, and listen, do; what I tell you two times is true." The flames whipped the air between them, but Sajantha held the bounty hunter's eyes, her attention. "They're coming," she said. "That door, they'll burst through. The soldiers outside, they're coming for you." Even if the woman didn't believe, even if it didn't stop her—if it distracted her, just enough—

The bounty hunter blinked, the focus on her own spell slipping. "Shut _up,_" the woman said, adding a spell into her speech that Sajantha could not rebuff: "_Lihelcvel!_"

The humming in her veins filled her ears, grew to fill her mouth; Sajantha's gasp made no sound. She clutched her throat. Silenced.

Sajantha took a step back. Or—she tried to. Clinging vines wound their way up one leg, and tried to grasp the other—all over the room, these thick ropes grew from the ground, slithering between floorboards. Her companions—finally stirring as the holding spell broke—had barely time to move before they became entangled, too.

One of those tendrils encircled her ankle, and Sajantha pulled herself free, pulled herself right off the chair in an undignified tumble—hands and knees scraped against the hard wooden floor as she landed amidst the fire-that-was-not-a-fire.

And the assassin at last saw the truth. Her pretty mouth flattened into a straight line as she stalked towards Sajantha, walking right through the fire without flinching. Any moment, though, the guards would be pouring through as quickly as the last few patrons poured out—she just needed to last that much longer—

Sajantha struggled to her knees.

The flame conjured about the club was real. The fiery weapon leveled towards her, and Sajantha forced her gaze to meet the fire now blazing in the assassin's eyes, that dark fury.

Footsteps clattered, the echo of metal greaves and boots outside, a racket erupting on the other side of the door sewn shut with vines. So close. So _close!_

But not so close as the bounty hunter. Sajantha threw her weight to the side, but the bonds only tightened further. She snapped one of the climbing vines free of her wrist as she lunged forward, but another wound up to seize her middle, and jerked her down. She kicked out, hitting only the table—a racket of dishes clattered down, the tinkling of glass sounded distant—but the palms that broke her fall pricked hard.

Behind her, a chair scraped, thrust to the floor with a bang. "Insolent churls! Could you not have taken this matter outside in the dirt where you belong?" Evidently the wizard's hands had been freed enough to reach into his belt for spell components. A flash of powder, a flare of light—and this no illusion: more than heat, power filled the air—the man shook free of the now-singed creeping plant. "That is quite enough!"

And only then did the woman really hesitate: surprised, she faltered—and the wizard did not. He raised a hand—voice level, eyes level—and an arrow shot across the room in a blur of speed, a blur of fire.

The bounty hunter had only time to gasp, cry abbreviated, as flames engulfed her, stemming from a hole in her melting face, a screaming hole of black—of red, oh gods—Sajantha jerked her gaze away. Right towards the wizard, whose hand still hovered outstretched.

"Thanks—" she probably should have said, and almost started to, but he stared at her with an expression so intense that the words caught in her throat—could she blame the spell of silence? Even her hearing seemed muted; the guards storming into the room may as well be miles away still.

And the wizard had not lowered his hand. How quickly might he speak another spell? Just what did that look on his face portend? She covered her mouth, tried to cover her nose. Behind her, the woman burned, and Sajantha's stomach turned.

"You must seize opportunity when it is offered," he told her. "Without hesitation."

Sajantha swallowed, turning away from what wreckage the fire had left behind. Not that the wizard's gaze was any easier to bear; the tension did not leave her even once he lowered his hand.

"You must tell me," he began, rolling accent sculpting the words with care, "how you are able to cast spells that ought be well beyond your ability."

Difficult to focus on their meaning when the sounds themselves called her attention, her mind skipped along a step behind. Not that she could speak, anyway. Could she? Just what would she say? Sajantha took in a deep breath. And began to cough.

Jaheira turned from the doorway, where the guards had gathered with the innkeeper and a handful of skulking townspeople. The druid wrinkled her nose, and whatever words she spoke cleared the air—the smoke, the stink—around them. They did nothing to clear the apprehension, though, or the sick feeling tightening in Sajantha's chest.

Jaheira reached down to pull Sajantha to her feet and brushed off the last of the curling vines, already crumbling, before turning to the wizard. "Your _timely_ intervention was appreciated." Her tone suggested otherwise.

He did not bother disguising his own sneer. "As was yours, I'm sure."

Jaheira ignored him. "Sajantha. We are done here."

Confident that she would lose a scowling contest with him as surely as a magical one, Sajantha tried a different tact. "Thank you for helping me," she said, infusing her voice with all the sweetness she could summon, gratified as his grin turned sour.

"Bah!" His mouth worked as if to lose a bad taste. "Did the lightning bolt that fried your hair fry your brain, as well? Rest assured, 'twas not compassion prompted my intervention. Delude yourself as you like; it is simply further evidence of your stupidity."

Sajantha's smile was slipping even before Jaheira's lecturing look. "A Red Wizard helps no one but himself," the woman said. "Best remember that."

"A..." Sajantha's jaw dropped; her hand came up to cover it._ Red Wizard? _

Hands on hips, his wide stance called even more attention to his flamboyant cloak. "You have heard of us, then." His present mocking smile seemed to anchor somewhere within her, sinking as she met his self-assurance. "(Perhaps she is not a total loss.)"

A Red Wizard! The silence spell may as well have stolen her tongue again; Sajantha couldn't summon a reply—couldn't quite stand, either—she lowered herself onto a nearby bench as the room began to spin.

Imoen sank down next to her. "Jeez, these guys just keep popping out of the woodwork, don't they?" She gave the corpse an uneasy glance. "Are you sure you're okay?" Sajantha nodded, keeping her lips pinched tight as she held her head.

The other patrons of the inn stepped forward, the innkeeper at their front. "Now, I... I saw the whole thing," the large man said, wringing his hands, "but someone has to pay for this mess." The group turned to him as one, and he took a step back.

"Allow your friend here the honor," the wizard spoke first, eyes lingering on the body. He glanced up only to sneer at Imoen: "Go on, then; this one enjoys digging through pockets."

Imoen darkened, but lowered herself to the floor, tossing through the woman's belongings as she quickly searched. "Nothing!" she exclaimed. A small pile grew around her, but plainly not much of worth; she'd overcome her disgust enough to be disappointed. "No gold whatsoever."

"She must have been counting on considerable profit from your death." The wizard—Red Wizard—glanced up.

_Profit? _There, in his hands: the bounty notice. Sajantha leapt to her feet. "What are you doing with that?"

"I thought perhaps it was a magical scroll," he explained, allowing her to take it from his hands, "though it proves far more interesting."

Sajantha scanned the page. The reward had more than tripled! She lowered it slowly, fighting the urge to crumple it, to tear it into pieces. How best to dispose of it? The fireplace too far—and it far too late; the Red Wizard had already read it, the damage had already been done. Her eyes darted back to him as her heart picked up speed.

She did her best to stand her ground. Don't give him an opening, don't appear weak—everybody said that about Thayvians, didn't they? Aye, but they'd said that of the Zhentarim, as well: greedy, scheming, backstabbing—and the Red Wizards the worst of them.

This one watched her with something like curiosity. After a moment, he leaned forward and took the paper from her hand. "_Ekess ehis_." In the space of time it took him to straighten, the page had vanished, leaving only a brief afterimage of green, and a scatter of dust.

Sajantha swallowed. Imoen had been right, then, that the bounty hadn't held any interest for him. But why? Because he didn't need the coin? Or because the Amnish guards had—at long last—arrived?

The wizard folded his hands into capacious sleeves as he examined them in turn. "Are there not more members to this intrepid troupe? (Pathetic, but it will have to do.)" He cleared his throat, sparing a moment to frown at Sajantha. "Where is your master?"

"My what?"

"Your mentor, your teacher, the unlearned excuse for your instructor in the magical arts."

Sajantha bit her lip. "He's... he—why do you care?"

The Red Wizard tilted his head, canting his hood a bit to the side; a flash of gold gleamed beneath it. "He is not with you, then?" He considered this a moment before chuckling. "A touch cruel, perhaps, to send off his apprentice into such dangerous lands with only the barest grasp of magic..."

"It's not like that!"

"Then he taught you all he knew before he cast you out? Gorion must have been a weak mage, indeed."

_Gorion_..._!_ "How did you—" The red of his robes seemed to grow brighter—Sajantha narrowed her eyes into slits. "Don't you speak of him that way!"

"I read the notice," he snapped, scuffing its dusty remnants with his shoe. "Though I found 'formidable foe' a bit of a stretch."

Sajantha curled her hands into fists, clenching back the choler stirring beneath her skin.

"But you have proven the barest measure of competence—an impressive feat, for one of your skill level. It may be that I have a task for you, a test to allow your outstanding mediocrity to shine."

"A test?"

"I speak of opportunity: a chance for fame untold, and riches beyond your ken."

"What makes you think we'd be interested?"

His eyes flickered between them. "As your ham-fisted friend cannot keep her mitts to herself: at least one of you monkeys seems so inclined to pursue the path to wealth, however clumsily. And it just may be that the guards will not hear of your bungled attempts at theft." He raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps you wish to be here when the rest of the half-soaked patrons sober up to the new lightness of their purses?"

Jaheira and Khalid turned to Imoen, who took a step back, hunching her shoulders. "A few coppers, is all! Nothing anyone would miss."

A muscle twitched beneath the wizard's jaw. "Indeed, imbeciles abound in this place—you among them, that you thought me a target susceptible to your own pitiful ability. Do you also lack the intelligence to pursue possibility when you see it?"

Sajantha shook her head. "I'm not sure..."

"Already she proves I have overestimated her!" He gave his head a quick shake. "Have you no understanding of the world's workings? Your betters name you a task, and you perform it so that you may eventually reach an acceptable standing from which to issue your own orders. I offer you an opportunity for advancement." Why did he look to her, as though _she_ made the decisions! His eyes pierced straight through her. "Surely you do not wish to remain a wide-eyed naif for the remainder of what will undoubtedly be a short adventuring life?"

Sajantha shifted, hands coming up to grip her arms as her gaze slipped towards Jaheira.

"He would not have acted without seeking something in return," the other woman warned. "And nothing we should wish to be a part of. Our thanks will have to be payment enough."

The Red Wizard drew himself up. His height lent him an edge even her haughtiness could not match. "I have not even begun to outline—"

"Nay, wizard—hold your tongue! We are none of us interested." Jaheira folded her arms across her chest, tight like a barricade.

"None of you...?"

Heat crept up Sajantha's neck. The boots peeking out beneath red robes were embroidered with arcane symbols; she didn't look up to their owner.

"We will not be party to your scheming, Thayvian," Jaheira spat, "do not mistake otherwise."

"We-ell," he chuckled, though it sounded strained. "No matter. Others will serve far better. Truly, the only thing you lot have managed with any success is to utterly ruin my day. If you removed yourself from my presence immediately, 'twould not be soon enough. I shall seek out those who know their place."

Jaheira sniffed.

"Are you still here?" the wizard sneered after her. "Begone."

Sajantha resisted til she reached the door; when she turned around, he held her gaze as if waiting for it. Peaked fingers seemed to point at her. "Take care your choice of companions, girl—they may not offer you the opportunities you dream for." The gold on his rings glittered, not nearly so unsettling as the gleam in his eyes as he stared after her. "Careful they do not stifle you entirely. Such power should not be restrained."


	11. Chapter 11 (Leaving Nashkel)

Calling Nashkel inhospitable would be calling the Anauroch a bit dusty; the desert was just as suitable for offering comfort, and with far fewer simpletons stumbling about. These dirt farmers had never been warm, but what respect they offered had cooled to caution, polluting the atmosphere as surely as the lingering stench of smoke. (Evidently the half-breed druid's burst of air had proven too weak to dissipate the spell properly.)

The innkeeper's nervous glances ricocheted across the room, inevitably colliding with either Edwin or the charred floorboards. "Have a rug put over it," Edwin suggested, "or have your eyes put out," —either would do—and the color bled from the lout's face as he obediently recalled his gaze to his task, attacking the wood with renewed fervor. (The man could scrub all he wished_;_ no amount of polish would ever make those dingy counters shine.)

Reasons enough to hate this place without suffering such discourtesy! But the chill had not yet reached the glyph on his chest: 'twas only wariness the locals exuded, not hostility. Edwin leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. At least the latter might be dealt with conclusively.

Far too constraining, the inn—the town (the _region!)—_was entirely ill-suited to house a man of his stature; the averted gazes of the patronage said the same. The feelings of sheep should never be enough to ever sway him, but there was little point in remaining confined within; Edwin swept to his feet.

His hooded cloak spared him the force of the sun as he stepped out into its domain. Certainly, growing accustomed to the whims of Western weather was but one more indignity to endure. No doubt Nevron was enjoying the splendors of Thay and its magically-regulated climes while his subordinates rooted about in such squalid corners of the world at his behest. _Abyss take him._

Edwin's own attempts at enlisting local forces to his cause were falling well-short of even his lowered expectations. The bounty hunter had more than proven her unsuitability, challenging her prey before both witnesses and company as though she wished to be caught, with such lack of finesse that Edwin had almost allowed her to be.

But at least she had been considerate enough to make her priorities clear early on enough to renege upon their deal; she had brought her end upon herself. Bounty hunters could not be trusted. Though finding replacements was proving just as irksome as tolerating her ineptitude would have been. Had it not been for that meddling druid, he could have made use of that last group with ease and been long-gone from this place.

It took but a moment to reach the town's outskirts and the limits of the guards' patrol (still not far enough away from this filth to find a breath of fresh air), but still the clanking of metal dogged him; he turned to find he'd somewhere gained an off-putting shadow.

"You've no right to stare at me so." The women glared at him with such a scowl grooved into her face it may well have been permanently etched there. Stare? He did so only then, giving her a cursory inspection. The sharpness in her narrow-eyed gaze was doubled by the winking blade at her belt. "Avert your eyes, or I'll cleave them from your face, pig!"

Well-muscled, to carry such a chip upon her shoulder. Edwin grimaced. It seemed all this location had to offer was a parade of ill-suited specimens—none of whom would recognize a quality opportunity if it blasted them in the face. Which he was sorely tempted to do.

"If there was aught to hold my attention, you would know it," he gave her a distracted sneer as he examined his fingernails, taking note of the additional figures entering his periphery. Also armored, but these newcomers were far too flimsy for the local oafs trundling about. Was there to be no end to the miserable rabble that crossed his path? Melee types had but one very predictable tactic; this group would serve no better.

"Watch your mouth, or I'll end your life where you stand."

His tattoo sent a warning through him, chill enough to combat the heat of the afternoon. No idle threat, this. Edwin folded his arms, hands disappearing into his sleeves.

Without a single magic-user that might give him pause, the group blundered forth with all the straightforwardness of the clattering armor that weighed them down. (And offered no protection against his magic.) Four more of these women had gathered around him, their slight frames bristling with weapons they were clearly eager to make use of. The one nearest him wore a jawless skull upon her buckle; her fingers stroked over it as she reached for a weapon.

Cyric? The mad god of _murder. _Oh, yes, the likeliness of reasoning with them had dropped faster than the temperature of his glyph. Gods knew he could do with some amusement. Cyric lent an element of unpredictability to the encounter, but not enough to interfere with his calculations; the right component and a good sneeze ought to do it. But where was the fun in that?

"'Tis a fight you are after? How... disappointing." Truly, the wench wasn't so bad-looking if you could get past the mad glint in her eyes. "I'm sure we could find a far more pleasurable exercise to leave you gasping."

And that reddened her face and set her mad-eyes bulging as she choked out, "Chauvinist pig! You worthless men are all alike—idiots, every one of you." The woman glanced back at her companions as if numbers alone granted an advantage. "Can't you see you're outnumbered?"

"Quality over quantity, my dear."

The Cyricist at least seemed amused, though her smile was dark. "The Iron Throne isn't paying us to kill this one, but I'll do it for free."

Mercenaries, or more bounty hunters? As if it mattered! "Alas, the folly of challenging a Red Wizard is a lesson learned only once... and not one you may ever again put to use."

"A Red Wizard?" He should not have bothered gifting them the warning: instead of the proper trepidation widening their eyes, it was excitement.

An echo of it hummed within his own self, the quiescent energy of magic as it stirred in his fingers, awaiting its proper channel. Hidden beneath his sleeves, his hands moved, crushing together two spell components. Very well: mad, or simply stupid, their end would be the same.

"_Yigmesh persvek_..." —At his voice, their blades drew free, metal rang with battle cries and chants; the warriors launched at him— too late— "..._bivnix_," and the world went white.

Nearly all sight vanished as the solid fog erupted outward, billowing past him to catch an arrow mid-flight: the projectile hung in the dense clouds, as pointless as the blinded cleric's chant. Nor were his attackers able to move any faster as they slogged through the thickened air, but Edwin did not remain behind to meet them: "_Ti tenpiswo mi si._"

The ground jolted from beneath him, and color cut into his eyes with a sharpness the soft fog had blunted; Edwin blinked before he could see the shadowy figures remaining behind, struggling to reach the borders of his spell. Even if they broke free, it would take them several more moments to reach him.

He raised a hand, altering the spell's energies, "_Kaden svent wer thrae._" The clouds churned a noxious yellow, bursts of smokey tendrils curling upward as the heavier gases settled, creeping along the ground. Too thick to see much through it, but a single limb fell free of the spell and twitched upon the curling grass.

He stood upon the hill until his glyph stilled, and waited another moment before releasing his spell. As the clouds cleared, sunlight glinted off the five armored bodies below. Edwin brushed off his hands and sighed._ Such a waste._

Spell components were rather difficult to come by, hereabouts. Past time to leave.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Something hard jabbed against Imoen's back. Twisting away from it, she mumbled out a complaint, but her bedroll didn't let her escape very far. Had Sajantha gone to sleep in her armor? Whatever had woken her was flat and heavy and determined to stick into her spine.

Enough sun peeking through her squint meant it was near-enough time to wake up, anyway; Imoen rolled over to find her friend staring up at the dawn breaking above them. The faintest light filtered through the trees, flickering across Gorion's spellbook locked tight in Sajantha's arms.

The book hadn't made an appearance since she'd handed it over at the Friendly Arm; her friend had kept it crammed safe inside her pack. Imoen rubbed her eyes, yawning. "You still trying to open that thing?"

Sajantha blinked. "I can't," she said, voice tired and flat like she'd gone and tried everything, instead of nothing. Didn't seem like her, just giving up like that.

"Because you don't know any of them abjur-what-ya-call-em spells?"

Her head shook, once. "Because... what if I erase it? Or send it up in flames?" She bit her lip. "That ring, he... My father had a ring to protect against magic."

"Yeah?" So that's what that had been. And a good thing, too. "Came in handy, didn't it?"

Sajantha's hands tightened on the book. "Don't you get it—why he would need it? Because of me. To protect against _me._"

Imoen sat up. "Oh. Oh, Sajantha. I'm sure that's not—"

"What if..." Sajantha sat up, too; her head dropped to stare down at the book, curls falling into her eyes. A hand reached up as if to brush them, but didn't get that far, just wiped at her nose, instead. "What if it's—all this—what if it's my fault, somehow?"

"Hey, now—why would you say something like that! You didn't do nothing; don't you think like that. Don't think like that, or you'll go crazy." Those kind of thoughts were like dogs chasing tails—around and around in circles—and no way to break free of them with no answer to sniff out.

"I need to learn more magic," Sajantha said. "I have to. I have to, or they'll keep walking all over me. But I can't. I can't do anything." She hugged the book close, right up to her chin.

Imoen leaned towards her. "Those, uh, those pyrotechnics you shot off in Nashkel, that was pretty impressive, wasn't it? You sure got the Red Wizard's attention. Seems like you pulled that spell off fine."

"I haven't got your luck, though. That's what wild magic _is_: it's chance, it's chaos. Sometimes it will work, aye, but when it doesn't? I could have burned the whole place down."

"But you didn't."

"But I could have."

"Yeah, like the bounty hunter could have smashed in your skull if you hadn't done nothing!"

Sajantha wouldn't look at her. "I could have hurt someone. It could have backfired; I could have hurt you."

"But you _didn't_. Come on, Sajantha—"

"I didn't _care,_" she said, pulling away. "I wasn't thinking of that, of consequences. I didn't care."

Imoen straightened. "If you're always worrying as to what you _might _do, well, you won't ever do nothing. You tell me which is worse." She shook her head. "You're afraid of it. Guess you should be. But back in Nashkel, I bet you were more afraid of that bounty hunter: and your magic worked. What do you reckon that means?"

Sajantha glanced up. "That I'm my own worst enemy?"

"Oh," Imoen laughed, "Oh, no. I hope not. You got plenty of enemies, don't forget."

Sajantha's lips pressed flat together.

"But you got friends, too. Can't forget that, neither."

She glanced away, rubbing at her forehead. "I dreamed about him, again." Sajantha took in a shaky breath. "The demon man. I dreamt of fire— all around—but he just kept walking through it. And I set the fire, I cast it. It burned down everything—everyone_. _But not him."

"That man..." Gorion's killer. Imoen cleared her throat. "If he comes along again, we'll make sure we're ready for him."

Sajantha's curls trembled, like she was shaking her head, or just shaking. "You didn't see him."

"I saw enough," Imoen muttered, not looking at Gorion's dagger. Tucked safe, now, inside Sajantha's belt, inside its hilt, but Imoen had seen that blade, yep, seen just enough. Gorion's magic hadn't done nothing, Sajantha had said so; he'd run out of spells and must've started swinging. The way the blade was dented and chipped said enough of its results, never mind finding it in his cold hand.

Sajantha stared straight ahead with a shimmer to her eyes as she folded her legs up, hugged her arms. "It seems as if—if we could only find the right place, my father would be there, waiting for me. Like... he can't be gone; he can't have left me, not really." Sajantha looked over at her. "Do you know what I mean?"

For a moment, all Imoen could see was Gorion's face, white as his beard, caved in like his chest, the rest of him more mangled up and twisted than the dagger. "Yeah." She cleared her throat. "Sure."

"Do you... do you think he'd want me to be using magic, now?" Sajantha whispered, "Or do you think he'd want me to be safe?"

"Oh—oh, _hon_," Imoen's voice caught, "I think he'd wish you had a choice."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Sajantha swung her pack onto her shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the strap. Near her neck—grazing her collarbone—lay the smallest of divots, where the skin had healed of all but a small scar. The flaming arrow that had struck it had been small as well, although it hadn't seemed so at the time. The Red Wizard's spell, though... that wasn't something she could have recovered from.

Sajantha shivered. She'd never studied destructive spells, not when her magic could make the most innocuous spell harmful by itself. It had been a necessity, in Candlekeep, to curb the potential of danger. Cautious, careful. they weren't in Candlekeep any longer. Out here, being too cautious—too hesitant—could get her killed.

Her father had not hesitated. And if Sajantha had acted—had done something beyond the running—perhaps, united, an attack would not have been in vain.

_"Wasn't nothing you could have done,"_ Imoen had said. And that's what hurt most of all, the truth: there hadn't been.

But she'd never even tried.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Hard to believe we met a real Red Wizard, huh?" Imoen asked. Sajantha kept glancing behind them; it wasn't too hard to guess what she was thinking about. She sure didn't have enough attention to spare for her steps, going with the way she kept having to pick twigs out of her hair, her boots, just walking into everything.

Sajantha looked down at the ground, then back up at her, probably trying to figure out just why Imoen was asking. "Aye," she said, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. Not that it stayed there, springing free after half a second. "What do you suppose he was doing this far west?"

"Oh, hard at work at some evil plan or another, I'm sure." Jaheira had jumped down the Zhentarims' throats quick enough; whyn't she thrown that same suspicion at the Red Wizard? Bet he could have mucked up them iron mines all himself, just throwing a fit. That kind of temper didn't sit so well with all that power. Wizards were ornery folk, to be sure; did they start that way, or did all that magic just go right to their head? "Who knows? He coulda been behind the Iron Crisis all himself!"

Sajantha's brow knit together. "Do you think? I didn't get that impression at all. But maybe we shouldn't have let him chase us off so fast."

"Yeah. Missed out on another night indoors." Imoen sighed. "I'm starting to forget what it feels like, sleeping on a real bed. But no arguing with Jaheira when she gets like that." The druid was walking up ahead, now, scanning the air like her wolf-sense done sniffed something.

"I don't suppose it matters, now, anyway. I really doubt we'll see him again."

"Probably for the best, huh? He won't be too happy running into me again, that's for sure." Imoen tried to bite back her grin, but Sajantha's raised eyebrow said she spotted it.

Imoen let it burst free. "Knew he was a wizard afore you did, I reckon—this sort of thing couldn't be much else." She hefted a small pouch from her pocket. She'd nicked it from where most folk tucked their coinpurses—shame it hadn't been any gems, or coins; it probably was only worth anything to a wizard. Whatever it was. Like a sandbag or something, the stuff inside it shifted as it flipped over in her hand.

"You mean you actually got away with something of his?" Sajantha's wide eyes weren't exactly a ringing endorsement, but Imoen threw her shoulders back, puffing up all the same.

"I'm hardly so much of a bumbling fool as he thought I was! And you aren't, neither. We can do this. I just know it!"

* * *

~*-{/=E=\}-*~

It was impossible that the imbecilic girl had been at all successful with her sneak-thievery. The—the absolute audacity of the child had barely been comprehensible at the time, and he had caught her in the act, had he not? But the alternative—that he had misplaced a thing of such importance—was equally unlikely.

Edwin was left with no recourse but to grind his teeth. Wherever the pouch was, it did him little good. But that disbelief—the utter implausibility of it—prompted him to search his pockets another moment past the proof of its absence.

"Bah!" he spat, at last surrendering his half-formed fireball, incapable of ignition without his pouch of sulphur.

The bandits blocking his path had not even the intelligence to flinch back. That more of these fools existed to throw themselves upon him so readily! No appreciation for his status at all. They did not even deserve the quick death fire would grant them.

"You, there!" he cried, singling out a single pair of eyes among the unwashed sheep. In the time it took the man to blink, Edwin had finished speaking the words of the spell, seized his mind—his _will—_and the bandits predictably did not know how to react when one of their own broke ranks.

The ranged attack they had anticipated came instead from a sword in their midst, and Edwin's thrall had cut down two of them before the remaining three reacted. Only one had sense enough to recall 'twas the wizard had orchestrated the attack. Too little, too late. Allied with surprise, Edwin needed none else. He picked off the remainder at his leisure, til only the one remained.


	12. Chapter 12 (Gnoll Stronghold)

Easily a head taller than Khalid—and twice as wide, besides—the tattooed man would have been rather intimidating even if he'd not been dressed in a barbaric assortment of leathers and furs that his muscles strained to escape. Only his wide-open grin kept his charge forward from being threatening, though Khalid's hand dropped to his sword.

"Hail, fellow adventurers!" the man cried out as he sped towards them, quick for all his size. "Boo and I go to rescue my charge, Dynaheir. Your company would be welcome: there is glory enough for all, and no time to waste!"

"Boo?" No one was behind him, and without any trees to provide cover, the man looked very much to be alone.

"Boo is my faithful animal companion." Tucked beneath the weathered pauldron on his shoulder, a whiskered nose twitched.

"Is that a... hamster?" Imoen stared.

The man dipped his head—revealing a large scar 'cross the top of it—and shared a confiding smile. "Boo is far more than he seems."

"Someone's a few seeds short of a raspberry, hey?" Imoen said under her breath. She needn't have bothered keeping quiet; his returning smile was as large and hearty as his stature, as buoyant as his voice.

"I am Minsc!" he told them, "And you have met Boo. And once we reach the stronghold across the river, you will meet Dynaheir, as well."

Imoen pursed her lips. "Looks like a cracked egg, don't he?" Indeed, his bald head was bare but for the scar across it. "Think his brains just might be scrambled, too," Imoen kept her voice a whisper as the man raised his large hands to his ear, nodding at the furry creature within. "We sure this lady's even real?" Imoen cleared her throat. "Dynaheir, she a, uh, a rodent, too?"

"Boo is a miniature giant space hamster," he said patiently. "And Dynaheir is a beautiful lady. But they are both courageous and respectable in their own rights."

Sajantha nudged her. "Do you hear that? She's real, alright: a real damsel in distress!"

A smile stretched out Imoen's cheeks. "What kind of heroes would ignore that?"

Sajantha sprang onto a large, flat stone, spinning to face the rest of the group. "Heroes, aye, and we would leave no soul to such a fate! Your lady will not long remain at the mercy of such monsters as would dare capture her from so valiant a protector!" She glanced down at Minsc. "What manner of monsters, did you say?"

"Evil dog-men," he replied.

"Fear not, good sir: these dog-men most foul shall imperil her no more!"

"Did we step onto a stage that I did not notice?" Jaheira murmured.

"We will undertake your quest and rescue the lady fair; she shall not come to harm on our watch."

"You will help Minsc rescue his charge?" The man's eyes lit up. "You are a force of goodness, indeed; Boo has chosen you well!" He stepped towards her, holding out his hand. From her perch upon the boulder, they were of a height; his eyes shone back at her as Sajantha took his hand and hopped from her makeshift stage. "Your words fill me with confidence. Together we will overcome those foul creatures, and Dynaheir will be safe at her protector's side, once again!"

Jaheira stood in her path with arms crossed and lowered brow. Sajantha's grip tightened on Minsc's hand.

"He needs our help," said Sajantha.

"Do the people of Nashkel—the Sword Coast—need it any less?"

Sajantha cocked her head. "How might we measure that, but with urgency? If a tenday makes a difference either way, time would not be in her favor."

Jaheira glanced at her husband, who touched his mouth, a bit of a smile beneath his fingers. "W-we will of course defer to your judgment," Khalid said. "Caring for others is an admirable goal, and one that should be supported."

"Why, thank you, Khalid." Ought she look at Jaheira—did she dare?—or would her poise desert her? Chin up, yes; Sajantha turned to the other woman with raised eyebrows.

"Gorion would be proud of you," Jaheira said, and a smile softened her eyes.

Sajantha's breath caught. She glanced down to the large, calloused fingers twined with her own, a giddy rush of air filling her lungs as she glanced over at Imoen, then back at the Harpers. _Heroes._ "Right," she said, squeezing Minsc's hand. "Right! To the stronghold we go—" she caught Jaheira's eyes— "and right quick about it, too."

Minsc beamed down at her.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

They had their first look at the dog-men the next afternoon: the crumbling ruins of the creatures' fortress stretched across the cliffs. Nearer to the coast, now, the rocky landscape had begun to look familiar, and the cool breeze upon the air carried a hint of the sea. But even that offered no comfort; one look over the ramparts sent Sajantha ducking back, mouth dry. Even from their perch on the opposite edge of the riverbank, the beasts that resided within were clear to see.

Sajantha crawled back from the cliff-edge, crouched low. "Those... those aren't kobolds, Minsc."

"Kobolds?" the ranger's brow furrowed. "Of course they are not kobolds; Dynaheir would never have been overcome by such tiny creatures! She is not so weak as that—though her capture was my own carelessness, and no fault of her own." He shook his head. "But I did not speak of kobolds."

"Dog-men, yup, you said 'dog-men'," Imoen remembered, leaning to get a peek, herself.

"Boo remembers this, too. Dog-men, not kobolds." He frowned.

"Dog," said Imoen, gesturing a couple feet from the ground. "Dog-man," she gestured a little higher. "_So what in all the hells are those?_" She pointed across the river, where the creatures on patrol loomed large even from this distance.

Behind them, a throat cleared; Khalid's face was a bit red. "Are the heroes no longer valiant enough to storm the stronghold?" Jaheira inquired.

Sajantha shared a look with Imoen. "We just need some time to prepare. For strategy. It was a bit misleading, is all."

"I'm _serious_," Imoen said. "Quit your snickering, Khalid. What the hells are them things?"

"Gnolls, I b-believe."

"And there's dozens of them. Each what, like ten-feet tall, or something?"

"Seven," said Khalid. "Maybe eight."

"Oh, that's all, huh? Yeah, no problem; we've got valiant pouring out our ears!" Imoen widened her eyes at Sajantha and gave a quick shake of head. "How many arrows you think that'll take? Maybe if y'all had sprung for some more of them fancy enchanted ones..." She tossed Jaheira a dirty look. "Or a magic bow that worked from this distance. Or, oh!" Her eyes shot open. "Oh, I got it." Imoen reached into her pack, an embroidered pouch flopping free. "Yeah! That wizard's, remember? Some magic dust. What do you think it does?"

"It doesn't 'do' anything," Sajantha said, "not by itself, anyway: it's a spell component of some kind. They're used to activate a spell."

"Well, I'm trying to be helpful, here. What kind of spell does it go to?"

"I'm not sure." Sajantha reached for the pouch, wary, but felt nothing other than the soft fabric as she touched it. "Too bad we can't ask him."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "Yeah, reckon he'd be real helpful. Before or after he burned our faces off?"

Sajantha held up the pouch. "He might need this to do it, actually." Sulphur? The smell was faint enough; the container had been enchanted to contain both scent and residue. "That's an ingredient for some fire spells."

"Perfect! Then we just need to figure out how to ignite it. What was that spell you did back at the inn?"

"That? No, it was just an illusion; that's nothing remotely the same. You don't know anything about magic! It doesn't work like that."

"Fine!" Imoen threw her hands in the air. "At least I'm trying! You tell me, then; what do you wanna do? What's your great idea, huh?"

"Oh!" Minsc cried out, burying his head in his hands. "I have failed Dynaheir and my dajemma both! Minsc will never be able to return to Rashemen."

"Don't say that! We'll save her," Sajantha stared down at the pouch. "We'll find a way to rescue her, Minsc."

"Hey, hey there, big guy." Imoen patted his shoulder. "Chin up, now; we'll get your lady back."

How, though? They needed a plan, more than ever. Sajantha walked a few paces away, running a hand through her hair.

"Gnolls do not keep prisoners, not long," Jaheira said. "They have slaves, whom they use up hard and fast. If she was not tortured to become such a one, they have likely eaten her."

"Gnolls, huh," said Imoen, gave Khalid a poke. "Not so funny, now, are they?"

"Might there be a spell of some kind?" Sajantha glanced down. The pouch lay heavy in her hand. "That you can cast, I mean. To find her."

Jaheira gave a shake of her head. "Short of scouting the camp myself, there is little I could divine."

"We must go!" Minsc cried, leaving cover to spring from his seat. "There is no time to deliberate. Heroes take action, or they are not heroes! We cannot idle while the lady suffers!" Red crept up his face, a flush beginning at the base of his neck that bloomed bright.

"We need a plan, so we don't end up suffering with her." Sajantha's hand slipped along his bracers as she reached for his arm before he could leap forward any further—as though she might be strong enough to halt him!

"I... I am already suffering." Minsc's shoulders sagged; he stopped. "But, Boo says your words are wise."

Wise, perhaps, but worth _what? _With no plan to speak of, no ideas—no time! Perhaps it might already be too late: Minsc's urgency seemed to seep through her fingers; Sajantha folded her arms tight across her chest as she glanced back toward the stronghold.

They'd been spotted.

A loose patrol, it must have been: those guttural growls and snuffling yips, the rattle of leather armor grew louder, a drumbeat of steps rounding the corner.

"But, I—" Sajantha took a step back, clenching her fists. "What are we supposed to do? I don't, I haven't—" No plan, and no time for one, now—

"Child," Jaheira's hand fell on her shoulder. "It's alright. We can handle this."

Khalid nodded. "We know what to do."

Minsc drew his sword. "Yes, _this_ is the part Minsc knows how to play! Evil, meet my sword—sword, meet evil!"

Before the gnolls could reach them, the Harpers and the ranger flew to meet them.

On her toes, Sajantha peered down after them, while Imoen hopped up on a ledge to get a better angle. "There's more of them, across the bridge. I think they saw us."

"What do we do?" Sajantha hadn't yet been in a battle where someone wasn't tearing directly towards her. She looked over at Imoen, who was drawing back her bowstring. "I don't have a clue what to do, if I'm not tripping over my own feet in terror."

Imoen sighted down her bow, tilting her head. "I'm not too sure, either. These arrows ain't doing a whole lot. At least the gnolls are tall enough: don't gotta worry about hitting no-one else."

"Is it hard?"

"Nah, it's easy; they're sticking up an extra couple feet above everyone—"

"No, I mean, to kill them." Large as the gnolls were, they could not pass the bridge more than one at a time—a perfect choke-point that left them no escape. "To take those shots, knowing..."

"Knowing what? That we're saving the day, rescuing some poor woman from monsters that want to eat her for dinner, before or after they rip off her legs?" Her bowstring twanged. Another of the great, furred creatures fell, forcing others to clamber over its body.

A gesture from Jaheira, and Minsc broke through to hold the bridge. The ranger must have been near on seven-feet tall, himself, for the gnolls did not loom half-so-large over him as the others. Behind him, Khalid darted in front of his wife, shield recoiling as he intercepted a blow.

"I just—I don't know what I'm supposed to do. When I think about killing them?" Sajantha stared at her hands. "I can't even imagine how I'd go about it. So what good am I, in a fight—in a rescue? I haven't got a weapon, and my magic..."

"Play them a tune; you're good at that."

"That's stupid, Imoen. Music hasn't got a place in battle."

"Stupid? Bit unconventional, maybe, but I've heard what you can do. Remember them hobgoblins? Knocked me out cold, too. Or that minstrel in Beregost, even? There's bards in adventuring parties, right; they must do something useful. Just 'cause you haven't found your place yet don't mean there ain't room for you."

"I tried, but—I can't play a hero." Sajantha hugged her arms. Not if it was just going through the motions; she needed more. "I can't go on about rescuing somebody and then stand back and watch."

"So shut up and do something." Imoen lowered her bow. "I'm all out of arrows. What's your excuse?"

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

The crew had mopped up the gnolls pretty good, even for them being such hefty brutes. Things that size probably ate kobolds for breakfast. At least when they weren't eating people. _Gross._ Hopefully this Dynaheir would still be in one whole piece.

Imoen peeked down toward the bridge. Timid Khalid could be as fierce a fighter as his wife, who would have guessed? Looked like between them and Minsc, they'd handled things just fine down there; it was only the numbers of 'em what took the time. Couldn't be too many gnolls left, by now; the bridge looked about empty.

Imoen hopped down from the ledge and some little rocks came tumbling after her. But that ruckus couldn't all be hers: she whirled to see one of them gnolls leaping down, right over her. Up close, it did look a bit like a dog, all snarling muzzle and flashing teeth—but the scariest part wasn't even the seven-plus feet of hairy muscle nor even the trophies of human pieces 'round its neck: it was the spear the thing had leveled at Sajantha and was all set to spit her on.

Sajantha tripped backwards and hit the ground rolling—rolled right beneath it—and the gnoll was way too tall to spin fast enough when she scrambled out from under it. But she was running away, away from Imoen—not just from the gnoll—and Imoen hadn't got any arrows.

"Dammit, you get back here!" Imoen cried. She found a stone and chucked it at the beast, but the hells-blasted thing didn't pay her no mind at all. With nothing else to throw at him; she'd have to close in with her blade. Damn damn _damn! _Its reach was even longer with that spear stretched out; just how long could Sajantha stay ahead of it? Long enough for Imoen to catch up?

Several heaving breaths and some twists and turns later, and Imoen's sprint closed her in just as it cornered Sajantha up on an outcropping; she'd crawled just as high as she could go: onto a tiny ledge no bigger than the gnoll's head, and just the perfect height for his spear.

Sajantha swayed a second for balance, arms out, then her hands kept moving. "_Mojka_," she began, and at last the beast stood still enough for Imoen to creep behind and line her sword up for a good swing, while he was lining up his own, "_de tenpiswo._"

Imoen sprung forward, blade cutting through the air, just as the gnoll vanished with a puff of smoke right from her sight—only, there it was! Up on that same little ledge, arms pinwheeling. But—Sajantha—?

Weight too much and feet too big, the gnoll lasted half a moment before it slipped off the ledge and disappeared in a cloud of dust and a clatter of rocks, crashing down the side of the cliff with a yelp. Dog-man, heh.

But Imoen's arm was hanging way too heavy, way more than the weight of her sword; Sajantha's hand fumbled at it, trying to grip at her shoulder. "Oops," Sajantha said. And as Imoen tried to move, it came clear her blade had caught on something. She looked down.

Imoen jerked back so quick she near-about fell; the blade came free, and both of them stumbled. "Oh," she said, "oh—oh, my gods, are you—"

Wide-eyed, Sajantha blinked. Took a step—a half-step—dazed. "I'm okay," she said, but her hand hovered over her chest. "I'm alright."

Imoen's stomach dropped. "You—you ain't." Sajantha looked down. A gash tore through her armor, from the center of her ribs clear around the outside.

Good that the clattering footsteps around them belonged to friends and not the gnoll come back; Imoen couldn't even look up until Jaheira muscled between them. "What happened?"

Imoen swallowed, shaking her head as she took a step back. "She just—she teleported or something; they switched places, I didn't mean—" Her fingers trembled on her sword-hilt and she half-tossed it, half-dropped it.

Khalid had taken Sajantha's arm as Jaheira tugged loose her armor. As soon as them buckles loosened, gave her room to breathe, the breath Sajantha took in was a little gasp. Her eyes were wet, or maybe Imoen's were; everything was blurring, she couldn't hardly see much but Sajantha's red fingers pulling away from her stomach.

Sajantha had caught her eye, was shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Y-you!" Imoen choked. "_You're _sorry? You just—you hush. Stay still." The druid was bent over her, praying to her elf-god Silvanus for what better be enough magic to heal her.

The glimmer of magic itched right across Imoen's own skin; she half-turned away, rubbing at her arms.

"Thank you," Sajantha said to the Harpers. "For—for the armor, too; I think that got the worst of it." Her fingers—still bloody—wandered to the split in the leather as she looked over at Imoen. For some reason, she was smiling.

"I could have killedyou," Imoen whispered. The words fit all funny in her mouth; she tried to spit them out and they got all mixed together swirling in her head, not making any sense. None of it made any sense. "I could have _killed _you."

"It was an accident. My fault." Sajantha's lips twisted. "My magic." One of her shoulders came up in a shrug. "Besides, it wasn't half so bad as that. And it worked, didn't it?" She glanced over the cliffside. "We took it down, after all."

Imoen stared at her blade, the tip of it still red, and shuddered.


	13. Chapter 13

Edwin brushed off his hands, glancing over to his ensorcelled subject. "What are you still doing here?" The man stared back, blank as any empty-headed farm animal in these parts. A cow, perhaps, with that vacant, unexpectant gaze.

_Imbecile_. Edwin returned to surveying the bodies. It was true, then; the wailing peasants had not simply been blow-harding the danger of the roads. Tracking down that blasted witch would be onerous indeed if he continued to be stopped every handful of miles.

These fallen brigands wore the same red clothing. Perhaps he was overly sensitive to it—in Thay, none outside his order would dare it—but had not his earlier attackers also been garbed thusly? Edwin frowned. Not quite uniforms, but such similar gear might mean these rabble were related. A mercenary group, perhaps: the Red Shield, the Red Ravens? Mercenaries did not act without coin behind them. Employed to attack travelers? An opportunity here, perhaps, if he could take hold of it...

"On second thought—boy!" The bandit blinked. "Just how many more of you are there?"

Edwin received only a blank stare. Even in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by idiots! The fact that the spell sapped some of its victim's intelligence was not inconsequential to a primate that possessed such a limited supply to begin with; he had clearly overtaxed it.

"Where are the rest of you? Where is your camp?"

The amount of gold on these corpses was sizable enough to give him pause—nearly enough to restock his reagents, should he hope to find a seller. It seemed being a bandit was quite lucrative these days. With more of these funds, he could procure what arms he required, and the witch would aggravate him no more! "What are you staring at?"_ Monkey-coated buffoon!_

"You—" the man blinked again, the oily sheen of the glamor over his eyes slipping. He clutched his head.

"I did not give you permission to speak!" But the spell was already expiring. "Blast it!"

The man shook himself, looking down at his sword before looking up with an unnerving amount of focus congealing in those blinking sheep-eyes.

Edwin stretched out a finger. "Let us have another go, then, shall we? _Wux ver ve thurirli!_" To the still-muddled head, his next spell took root easily, a far more insidious thing insinuating itself deep within his brain. And when the bandit blinked, intelligence (or at least the barest hint of it) and recognition came into his eyes.

"Ho, friend!" the man said. A smile stretched out his face. "What can I do for you?"

Edwin's own smile was a much darker thing, but the fool would be unable to tell the difference. He held the man's gaze to keep him from taking note of the bodies around them. "We were returning to your camp with all haste."

The bandit's compliance was hampered by his stumble—and a very large wound in his side. He looked up, mouth falling open. "I think... I think I'm hurt."

So the man's former compatriots had managed to score a hit after all; blood stained the surviving bandit's clothing an even deeper red. "Be grateful you still breathe," Edwin told him, "and do not waste what breath you have bemoaning it."

The bandit raised a hand to his chest, and shuddered. "It hurts," he said, and he sounded very young, far younger than his growth of beard (unimpressive though it was) might suggest. "It hurts real bad. I don't think I can—"

One setback after another! "Surely one of your companions" —fools though they were— "thought to bring a healing potion?" Fortunate for him, this indeed proved to be the case, for Edwin would have been hard-pressed to spare his own store.

Several unbearable minutes later, the bandit had regained his color, and with it, his smile. He spared an especially vapid version of it for Edwin, who grit his teeth and gestured, "Lead on."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"I shall need my supplies returned to me, firstmost." Dynaheir's voice was as imperious as the gaze she distributed among them. Calm, cool, and collected, the only sign the dark-skinned woman had recently been a prisoner was a slight state of dishevelment—a bit of muss to her wavy black hair, though Sajantha was not one to judge—and her carriage more than compensated for it. Even her flowing violet dress seemed to have endured little hardship.

"She's like—she's like a princess," Imoen said. "Talking like them old books—seems like she just fell out of one. Reckon she's some sort of royalty, or something?"

"You took the wizard to be a noble, as well," Sajantha reminded her, the sting of her own failure to recognize him still sharp. Pick-pocketing a wizard, really!

Imoen shrugged. "Stuck-up enough for one, that's for sure."

Sajantha glanced over at Minsc. Royalty, though? The ranger rather ruined that possibility; he hardly seemed fit accompaniment to anyone of great stature, despite his prowess. Their new ally had proven himself formidable in more than just size: fear for Dynaheir had strengthened his arm, though no fear existed in his blows, but a fury. 'Berserker,' Khalid named him. Overall, he made for a rather odd sort of guardian. Certainly an unconventional one_. _

"Yon mongrels did relieve me of mine equipment," Dynaheir said, "and I feel its lack as keenly as I did that of mine guardian's." She gave Minsc a small smile. "Hast thou encountered any of it, by chance?"

"Nay, madam," said Sajantha, the other woman's way of speech slipping from her tongue with ease. How many archaic tomes had been penned in such a script? Dynaheir must have learned Common from studying just such writings. "I fear we encountered nothing of the like, but surely your life may be valued above such worldly things? Freedom is a far greater treasure."

"Thou speakest truly. Partaketh of my boundless thanks—accept this, my pledge of service, and Minsc and myself shall prove companions steadfast to thee. Thou seemest a champion, good-hearted and true: allow us to lend our strength to thine endeavors."

"'Twould be an honor, indeed, to welcome two such souls unto our undertaking. We travel eastward, to clear the clouds of darkness settled upon the Sword Coast and bring what light we may."

Imoen's cough sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter.

"Then I must thank thee again, for having set thy own quest aside for the nonce." Dynaheir glanced at Minsc. "And to allow such a messenger as this to guide thee showeth great faith. Verily, Mystra smiled upon our meeting."

"You wish to travel with us, then?" asked Jaheira. Perhaps holding her judgment in reserve: her gaze did not bite so sharp as it could have as she studied the other woman. "We go to investigate the mines of Nashkel. It may be the source of the region's troubles and could prove quite dangerous."

Dynaheir inclined her head. "If we may assist thee on thine own quest, 'tis only such repayment as is thy due. Forsooth, thine acceptance would be our own honor."

"She might talk like an old book," at her side, Imoen poked Sajantha, "but it ain't contagious. Knock it off, already; she's gonna think you're making fun of her."

"Not hardly!" Sajantha protested, mimicking Imoen's own tone.

Imoen laughed. "Go on, then, you goon." She shook her head. "I done found some of her stuff, I think. Follow me—just... careful of your step." She grimaced, unable to avoid a crunch as she slipped across the fortress hall. Sajantha tried not to look too closely at their feet; she could guess.

If possible, Dynaheir seemed even calmer once reunited with her gear. She nodded to herself as she began strapping on pack and pouches. Minsc grinned at her as he held out a book, small in his large hands. "_Dekuyo,_" she thanked him.

"W-we ought to hurry," Khalid warned them. "There may be more patrols coming."

Dynaheir looked up, her full lips curving into a smile as her fingers curled around the book. A spellbook. "Let them come."

"A mage," Imoen whistled. "Just how'd they ever catch you?"

Dynaheir's smile faded til even her voice was bare of it. "'Tis a mortal failing, to rest one's guard. And mages are folk, like any other: they have weaknesses. They can be killed."

The ground was a poor escape for her gaze, given the bones upon it; Sajantha shivered.

"Were we in Rashemen, I could show thee wonders more. My truest strength is drawn from the land itself."

"Like a druid?"

"Nay, not as such. But we hathran share a bond with our home and the spirits within it. Perhaps the core of it is the same: woven of the love and respect that such a connection hath made. We _are _Rashemen."

Sajantha looked up, then. "Did it... did it hurt very much to leave?"

Dynaheir paused. "It is a test, our dajemma," she said, "like any coming-of-age. If there is suffering, it is a test of endurance; if there is pain, it tests our resolve. We must prove ourselves as well as our convictions."

"Prove to whom?"

"'Twas the othlor_—_the true sisters_—_that set this path upon me, but the steps are mine own. The first proving is always to thyself." She smiled. "Be true to thine own self, and none may judge thee falsely."

"And where are you at, on this dajemma—this journey?"

"Oh," said Dynaheir, "I do think it only now begins. Great things are foretold for the Sword Coast."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

They'd left the stronghold behind without further incident, and with enough daylight hours to see them well-away by nightfall. But even as the day dragged on to dark, Minsc's smile still shone. "My lady is very glad to meet you; I can tell. And so am I!" The ranger's eyes reflected the campfire, sparkling down at Sajantha. "I can never thank you enough! If there is ever anything that Minsc may do for you, you have only to say the word. Or, ehh—_words_, perhaps." He nodded. "Boo was right to trust you."

"Boo?" The hamster. "Not you?"

"I am ashamed!" cried the ranger. "At first, Minsc sees only the little girl. She is not even so wide as my arm, I said. What help could such a child be? But Boo, he reminds me: looks, they mean nothing! For how few see the wisdom such a small one as Boo may offer? He disguises it with such fuzzy cuteness, but in truth he has all the ferocity of a small dragon. This, you could not tell to look at him." He nodded. "It is well that he is on our side, yes?"

"And well that you've your own wisdom, to heed wise words when they're offered."

Minsc beamed, and tipped his head towards the hamster. "We will be very good friends, I think," he confided—to Sajantha, or to the animal?—she couldn't help smiling back.

"Thank you." Sajantha looked over at the hamster. "...And, thank you. Boo, was it?" Its whiskers twitched.

"Ah, Minsc," sighed Dynaheir. "How thou dismays and delights in equal measure."

"Minsc and Boo and witch are united, once again!" he crowed. "Old friends and new friends—evil, watch out!" The large man settled back, letting out a great sigh. "All is well with the world. For what more could we ask than the safety of friends?"

"I don't know about you," Sajantha said, "but I could really use a bath."

Imoen leaned back, crossing her legs. "And some new clothes, huh?"

Sajantha clasped her hands in her lap so her fingers wouldn't be drawn to touch the tear again. Jaheira had healed her fast enough to prevent any scarring—and truly, the wound had not been so very deep at all—although Imoen seemed to see the blood every time she looked at her.

It had been Sajantha's own fault, though, and no other; the conjuration spell had proved too complicated for her to attempt. But better to try something than nothing, right? "Don't worry about it," Sajantha told her, face warm.

Imoen stared at the fire. "One of us has got to worry."

Sajantha pulled her father's book from her pack, settling it into her lap. "I just need to study more." Now that she was outside of Candlekeep, she might at last have a chance. Not that his spellbook did much good, warded as it was. Her fingers glided along the beveled edges of the cover as its blank pages stared up at her. As they had every night she had not dared to dispel it.

"May I...?" Dynaheir held her hand out. "If this warding troubles thee, perhaps I might help. There are few secrets of abjuration unbeknownst to me."

"Oh," Sajantha straightened, glancing down at the book. "If you think so."

The mage's hand brushed its surface as she closed her eyes. She nodded to herself, then pulled away. Fingers already flying, they traced a sign as she spoke, "_Arcaniss de toma."_

As the leather cover grew warm beneath Sajantha's fingers, a similar warmth grew within her: a certainty that the spell had worked, though its appearance remained unchanged. She cleared her throat. "Thank you."

"Of course," Dynaheir nodded. "'Twas a simple enough illusion to dispel."

Sajantha bit her cheek and stared down at the cover for a long moment, waiting til the other woman walked away before she opened it. Her father's tight scrawl stared up at her, growing to fill page after page, growing like the lump in her throat.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Thy friend is knowledgeable of spellwork, yet not a practitioner of the craft, herself?" Dynaheir settled down beside her, tilting her head towards Sajantha, who'd plunked herself down off to the side—near enough the fire for light, but only just.

Imoen chewed on her lip. Now, there was a puzzle, rightly so. "She knows the whats, but not the hows. She's good at reciting things, or even picking them up on the spot, but somehow she can't never pull it off right." Imoen ran a hand through her hair. "And I ain't—I'm not sure she should even be trying."

Dynaheir raised her eyebrows.

"Well," Imoen shifted on the grass to face the other woman, "way I see it, whenever Sajantha is riding the Weave, it writhes and bucks like an angry stallion, goes galloping off in the wrong direction. And her songs—her rhymes—well, they calm it down a bit, maybe. But it's still like any wild animal."

"Wild magic," the mage nodded, her full lips pursed. "The Time of Troubles was not so long ago for its chaos to be forgotten. 'Twas not just the Weave torn asunder, but the very land itself."

And it was tearing Sajantha apart, sure enough. "Look," said Imoen, clearing her throat. "I got me a sword, and I got me a dagger. Don't know overmuch on using either one, not if someone came straight at me who did. I can shoot, yeah. But them big things like gnolls aren't going down with just an arrow. Flame arrows, though," she bit her lip, "things like that. I..."

"Dost thou think to learn the Art, child?"

On the other side of the fire Sajantha sat curled up with Gorion's old book, reading up on his spells. Imoen gave a shake of her head. "I'm thinking of how to survive." She leaned forward. "Do you—do you think you could maybe teach me? Anything at all. I just... I can't do this. Everyone else is so strong, and—and what can I do? I'm the one what should protect her."

Dynaheir rested an arm onto her knee, bracelets jingling. "Every master was once a student, and every journey hath a first step." She raised dark eyes towards Imoen. "Thou art of sound heart, with nimble fingers and a nimble mind. But 'tis the power of thy will foremost that layeth the foundation and must guide thy path. Art thou certain this is thy wish?"

Warmth burst inside Imoen, a bright possibility that tugged the air right from her lungs as it shot free of her. She nodded, kept nodding. "Whatever it takes, whatever you say. You let me know, and I'll do it."

The mage smiled. "If thou hast the will, then we will find thy way."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"So, what about this; think you could use it?" Imoen held up the spell pouch she'd stolen. "It's gotta be good for something, right?"

"'Tis magics of defense and protection that fill my spellbook, not words of death and fire. How hast thou come by such a thing?"

Sajantha glanced up from the path. It wasn't the contents of the pouch, but the embroidered symbols woven 'round it that held Dynaheir's eye.

The three of them walked secure behind the Harpers, with Minsc at their backs. Six was a not unsizable group; somehow the extra company made their travel seem less onerous, even over such a flat, open landscape. No trees to offer respite from the sun—nor cover from danger—but the brightness of the day, blistering though it may be, was rather welcome after the dismal damp of the fortress the day before. The mage seemed even more radiant with the sun glinting off her chains of jewelry.

"Got that off a real-live Red Wizard, I did." Imoen's head bobbed.

"Live...?" Dynaheir repeated, unease tinging her voice. "No Wizard would willfully be parted from his materials. Where didst thou encounter him?"

"Nashkel. But Sajantha says he's old news, and I'm minded to agree. Nothing much happening in that one-horse town; he'd be long gone, by now."

"Didst thou happen to learn of his purpose there?"

"Well, he sure prattled on a lot without saying nothing. Long on wind and short on substance, if you get me."

"I see..."

Sajantha cleared her throat. "Do you know very much of Red Wizards, Dynaheir?"

Dynaheir's jewelry clinked as she turned. "I know they are not to be trusted. And that ought be all thou needst know, as well."

Imoen shrugged. "That's all anyone ever says on them, ain't it?"

"Dangerous," Sajantha murmured. "They're said to be dangerous."

"Yeah, he was a nasty one, and no mistake. About as well-mannered as them gnolls." Imoen looked at Sajantha, then, expectant. Only did she expect for her to agree, or disagree?

Sajantha reached down to brush off her skirts. "He did save my life," she admitted.

"Indeed?"

Imoen rolled her eyes. "Now, there's a list growing pretty long."

"Aye..." Nearly as long a list as those who'd tried to end it.


	14. Chapter 14 (Nashkel Mines)

Just like sighting down the bow, it seemed like, when all of your focus narrowed in—building up like the tension in that string, just waiting to loose—the certainty of that dead-aim: knowing just where it would go, and the rush when it would connect.

Easy to see why Sajantha liked it.

"It's not like that when I cast," Sajantha said, "not at all, none of that control. There's just so much of it—so much going on—as if I couldn't stand back far enough to hold it all."

No, didn't sound much the same. "Maybe you're just not doing it right," Imoen joked, but Sajantha didn't seem to think it was so funny.

Jaheira was looking more serious than usual, too, as the flat ground gave way, all dug out like someone had taken a giant spoon and scooped out the dirt. Down below in the crater, little carts and and littler men wound round the iron tracks that criss-crossed it.

Jaheira's forehead wrinkled. "Here we are," she said. "The Nashkel mines."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Wish you folks luck in there," one of the guards said, tipping his head as they passed, "I sure wouldn't want to run into whatever's causing all that trouble."

"Pardon me, sir," Sajantha came to a stop so fast Imoen near tread upon her heels, "but isn't that your_ job?"_

"My job's to watch the door, miss, and I'm staying right on this-here side of it." The soldier's smile came too quick; his gaze fled far past them before darting back. Was that truly his duty, here? To guard a door when the disturbance was already somewhere inside?

"Fine job you're doing, too," Imoen agreed, "keeping whatever-it-is locked up tight." She rolled her eyes. "C'mon, Sajantha; we'll take care of their business for them."

Sajantha gave her own a head a quick shake, but let Imoen tug her through the gate. "Sure wish Hull was here," Imoen sighed as they stepped over metal tracks. "Oh, he'd grumble and grouse aplenty, but you could always count on him to come through. Wouldn't catch him hiding when something needed doing."

"Unless it was a night you both were out drinking," Sajantha remembered, "or the morning after," and Imoen had to laugh.

Candlekeep. Home seemed ever-more distant when the mine's entrance yawned before them, open like a hungry mouth waiting to swallow them. Sajantha glanced back one last time towards daylight, but the silhouetted soldiers nearly blocked it all out. "I don't understand," she said. "They're guards,aren't they? If this is their job—just what have they been doing? The miner back there, he said the workers are _dying; _something's killing them_. _Aren't the soldiers supposed to protect them?"

Jaheira pursed her lips. "The soldiers are here to protect the mine and its shipments, not its workers."

"But how can they just stand there? How can they let workers go in, if it's so dangerous?If they're dying! How can ore—_defective_ ore—be worth anyone's life?"

Imoen elbowed her. "Someone should do something about it, huh."

"And here we are," Khalid's lips quirked.

Far cooler inside the mine, the only thing that followed them was the humidity; turning a single corner had cut off both the sun and a good deal of heat. Goosebumps prickled across Sajantha's skin.

"I heard one of them miners talking of yipping dog-demons." Imoen glanced at Minsc. "You think that's what's in here?" Difficult to picture gnolls crawling about in these tiny tunnels, large heads hunched into furry shoulders; they'd fill the space entirely.

Minsc stared upward; his own head came very near the ceiling. "Gnolls would not find this to their liking. There would be no mystery, either; they are not so very stealthy."

"Can you imagine bumping into a gnoll down here?" Imoen was thinking the same thing. "Couldn't hardly run, then." She patted the strap securing her weapons, eyes meeting Sajantha's for just a moment before she looked away. "We should be careful."

Even the shadows grew deeper as they descended; Dynaheir whispered a word and summoned an orb that set their path aglow.

"I'm missing four," a miner told them, shrugging away as if the light burned his eyes. "They been disappearing, one by one. We've buried five just these last two tendays."

The guards they passed looked only slightly less worried than the miners, their arms and armor not enough to provide them with reassurance. Nor was the group's presence enough of a relief; the men simply nodded or averted eyes as they walked past. No—there _was_ a tinge of relief, there; the same in that first guard's gaze: the relief of, '_you, not I_.'

"D-do not fault them for their caution, Sajantha. 'Tis a rare man who can handle such constant fear with grace."

Sajantha hugged her arms. "How do you do it?"

"You find something that matters more to you," Khalid's lips turned up as he gazed toward Jaheira, "something strong enough that fear weakens beside it."

"I shall _crush_ your fears beneath my stave." Jaheira gave a sober nod, sparkling eyes the only sign of her jest. Her husband laughed.

"Fears and evil shall all be crushed, today!" Minsc agreed. "We have boots enough to stomp them both."

And soldiers enough to aid them, should any leave their pointless posts. Standing there all day just staring into darkness might be enough to drive anyone mad. Just what did they imagine lived down here, that none dared to face it?

"Dragon," said one. "Haven't actually seen it, but what else could kill all those miners?"

A dragon? It did almost smell reptilian, this humidity that crawled across her skin and left her sweating.

"Hey. Hey, Sajantha." Imoen's grin wavered in the torchlight. "Check this out; I got some Draconic for ya." She cleared her throat, pinching a small object between her fingers. _"Qanesc!" _For a moment the flash of light she summoned rivaled Dynaheir's own, leaving them blinking spots as it faded to a softer glow, dimming as they walked past the cart she'd cast it upon. "Well, I—I should've attached it to something else, I reckon," she scratched at her head, "but, pretty neat, huh?"

Sajantha glanced back at the beacon before the corner they rounded cut it from sight. "Aye."

Their own shuffling footsteps barely stirred the well-packed dirt. "It's quieter here than it should be. Don't you think?" The stillness settled like a fog—a murkiness thick enough it crept across her—something that might choke if they breathed it in.

"Whaddaya want? A racket to call this devil down on us? Your hearing's better 'n mine, anyhow."

Distant, clinks of metal on rock sounded, but far between; their echoes followed further, fading: on and on and on, only to resurge with a louder clank that dug right through her nerves and stiffened her spine each time.

"Well, at least we'll hear 'em coming." Imoen turned to her. "Just like a walk through the Underhalls, innit?"

Sajantha swallowed. "Just like it." Navigating the Underhalls had been a trial, too, at first. Only Miirym had made them welcome; the under-tunnels of Candlekeep had ceased to be ominous once they had simply become a route to visit a friend. When the dragon's presence filled the entire underground, the halls had been a second home. Here, though, the unwelcome settled in every stone, in every miner's anxious face.

"Little holes," one whispered, hunched against a wall as they rounded a corner. "They didn't say. Spaces too small, they are, too small: no room to breathe. Walls everywhere. No room to breathe."

There came a growl, a hiss, the scrabbling of feet—then the only sound was a whistling past Sajantha's ear. The thud of the arrow as it struck the rock behind her seemed especially loud. No pain, but a numbness—Sajantha reached for her ear—still there!—as she ducked down. A gurgling wheeze as something cried out, and by the time Sajantha returned to her feet, the stillness had crept back with her.

Imoen adjusted hands on her bow as she glanced down. "Was that—"

"Kobold," Khalid said.

It lay upon the ground, narrow limbs strewn about like a discarded marionette, nearly the same size as the shortbow fallen beside it.

"Scales and a long snout, sure, but I can't see as they're related to dragons, much," Imoen squinted. "Maybe dogs. But that tail's like a rat's; no wonder Miirym got so prickly about 'em."

Not dogs, no, 'twas a humanoid body upon the ground, the size of a small child.

"So small," said the miner, peeking up, atremble. "They didn't say." He ducked up his shoulders, hiding his head between his knees. "Didn't say anything about little holes, did they? No, spaces too small, they are. Spaces too small." He rocked on his heels.

"It's alright, now," Sajantha touched his shoulder. "We're going to take care of it." Beneath her fingers, his skin twitched.

"No room." He shook, and his shiver traveled up her arm, to her center, like a fire caught inside her. "No room to breathe."

Sajantha pulled back her hand. "We'll—we'll take care of it. Don't worry."

_"They didn't say,"_ his mumbles followed them, mingling with the lonely murmurs in the air.

"Ghosts," another miner said. Dynaheir's light underlined the hollows of his eyes far darker. "The mines are haunted, haunted by the ghosts of all that have died here."

Voices lingered in the corners, in these caverns, whispers that dragged like cobwebs across her mind. "Not ghosts: dragons." Whether they shared a heritage or not, the two shared a language, after all.

"Little dog-dragons? Heh. Those red eyes put me off a bit." Imoen's own eyes kept scanning the surroundings. "Not to mention all that jabbering."

"They're speaking Draconic. A form of it, anyway." The cadence was off, like the same notes but played on a different scale. Her ears strained after it, though those echoes could be anything. But surely not ghosts.

"Like you know enough Draconic to talk to them."

"Miirym taught me quite a bit! And I know enough about kobolds to know they oughtn't be in human lands, not in numbers." Something must have driven them from their dens. "How long has the mine been in operation? Perhaps this was their own home, first."

Imoen snorted. "Look around! This place might be shiny from all the damp, but it sure ain't new."

"Well. They must have a good reason to be here."

Jaheira turned back towards them. "And we'd best be watchful for it; kobolds are more cunning than many give them credit for. Doubtless they've lain traps for any pursuers."

Dynaheir narrowed her eyes. "Something comes."

Sajantha spotted the motion a moment later—heading right for them—

At her side, Imoen pressed her lips together and drew her bow.

A man stumbled free of the shadows. Haggard and tired, even his clothes were worn ragged; his dirty face still shone white with wide, bulging eyes that caught the meager light. "Oh—" he gasped, "oh, my gods; oh, please—" He fell to his knees. "Help me!"

Imoen lowered her bow. "What—"

The passage filled with the sound of whistling air, of twanging bowstrings—and a chilling scream in their wake. The miner collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, a prickling of arrows erupting from his back.

"Swords out!" cried Minsc, bounding forward. He shrugged off the next flight of arrows, the clumsy wooden things no match for his solid armor. More thunked across Khalid's shield.

Jaheira hung back to tend to the worker, a mining cart providing cover. Sajantha knelt down, ducking beside them. Jaheira looked up with a shake of her head: _too late. _Cold seeped into Sajantha's leg, and she shifted free of a puddle. "Ouch!"

Jaheira's gaze shot upward. "What is it?"

Sajantha drew back her skirt, fingers finding a shallow cut across her knee. "Broken glass, or something." She lifted her hands, covered in a slick residue and a painful itch steadily spreading. "I—I think it's—"

"Poison!" Jaheira's hands flared white, and the tingling that had begun beneath Sajantha's skin faded from a burning to a pleasant hum.

The rocks on the cart dripped with the same substance.

Dynaheir's small feet stepped by the broken bottle with care. "Tainting the ore? Cunning as the kobolds may be, they could not be behind such a thing."

"If it's not their doing... if it's something else making them..." Sajantha looked up as the rest of the group approached, weapons still out. Still bloody. "We shouldn't be killing them." The spindly bodies of kobolds could not stand up to an attack of any kind; with sickening ease, the swords had cut through them. "This is wrong."

"Wrong?" Imoen said. "Wrong's what killed that poor miner; you saw it. Shot him right in the back, too."

"How many deaths would convince you?" Jaheira asked. "The creatures must be brought in check."

How many deaths would convince _her? _Did it not matter whose? "They haven't got a _chance_, not a shadow of one." Kobold corpses littered the ground; the attack had left their small bodies scattered even smaller. Sajantha grabbed Jaheira's arm. "They wouldn't be doing this without a reason—"

"And what reason would excuse the murder of innocents, child?"

"We don't know what's going on! Killing them, it's—it's as bad as what they're doing. Worse: we don't even know _why._"

Jaheira tilted her head. "Unless you have a spell that will calm them, we must stop them somehow. Just what do you suggest?"

Sajantha stared at the tiny, broken bodies, looked up to see the body of the fallen miner, too. "I... I don't know." She'd think of something. She had to. _Oghma... _There was a secret here, a truth not yet told. _Help me find it,_ she prayed. _Help me find an answer before anyone else has to be hurt._ Her fingers twisted on her necklace, her father's ring catching.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

The lower caverns didn't look so much like a mine anymore; this far down they just got more craggy—like they'd left behind all human touches at all—like the miners had just ran away before they finished digging. Might be they had. If they were smart.

"Do they really send people down here?" Sajantha was frowning, as she'd been since that first kobold. "No wonder they've not heard back from them."

No wonder and then some. "You, uh— " Imoen stepped back, nearly knocking into her— "you got nothing against killing spiders, right?"

Two of the monsters scuttled towards them, thin legs flickering with a frightening speed as they ate up the ground, those jaw-teeth clacking.

"Lady Luck," Imoen prayed, sweaty hands fumbling at her bow; they were coming way too fast for her to line up a shot. "Lady _Luck._" Too fast, too _close, _her fingers dropped for her belt, instead, grabbing at the sword strapped in and knocking loose her pack. She swung her blade through the air as she jumped over it.

Small bursts of light puffed the air, exploding in that giant, clacking, too-many-eyes-blinking face. Imoen stabbed right into it as the next flurry of magic heated up her knuckles.

Minsc and Khalid had sliced up the other spider's rear as it gobbled ground past them, leaving a couple legs behind. It hissed and spit and whirled, venom flying, then its body hunched up, long legs curling over as it fell twitching to the side.

Sajantha's skirts kicked out as she stepped over the spider, holding the still-smoking wand outstretched. "Found this," she said.

Must've rolled right from Imoen's pack, just like that first time. "Didn't need no dragons this time, did we?" She winked at Sajantha, who smiled. "You hold onto that for me, 'kay?" She nodded at the wand. Close enough to magic, but not the kind what could backfire. Sajantha stared at it a long moment before sliding it through her belt.

Nature had either reclaimed this place or the miners hadn't uprooted 'n buried it all, yet—Jaheira should be happy—a little underground lake waited for them through some more tunnels. Unfortunately, something else was waiting for them, too.

A shining streak of light flew past, a burst of fire exploding around Khalid's shield that flashed his red hair even brighter. On the other side of a narrow-rock bridge some kobold archers were hard at work guarding a door.

With enchanted arrows! "Ooh, let's get 'em quick," Imoen said. "Before they use up all those arrows."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"What!" A gruff voice growled out, sounding like it had to break past a clenched jaw to get through. "How did you get in here?"

When he turned, it came clear the growl was no mere affectation; with that blunt nose and large teeth, the gray-skinned man clearly had orcish blood. Sweat glinted on his broad forehead. "What more does Tazok wish of me! By Cyric, not a measure of ore leaves these mines unspoiled, and I'm still to be executed?" He backed up, large hands flexing into fists. "I'll not lose my head over this."

"See what scum floats to the top when we stir the waters?" Jaheira looked pleased. "This Tazok must be the source we seek."

Blade in hands, Minsc loosed a shout, "Reveal your treachery, though it will go no easier for you, villain! Evil is as evil does: dead!"

"Tazok did not send thee?" The half-orc bared his teeth in a snarling grin. "Then thou art dead." A purple glow burst forth from his hands as a clatter rose around them: from the shadows bones assembled into a small army, skeletal figures forming around him. "Attack!"

The bony constructs withstood the force of swords little better than the kobolds had, collapsing with ease before their might. The man stood surrounded by the broken figures and their dusty remains, able to trade only a blow or two before recoiling from Minsc's greatsword.

"I yield, I yield to thee! Accept my surrender?" The pitch of the half-orc's voice rose as it shook.

"First we must accept thy sincerity," said Dynaheir.

His gaze flickered between them. "I am outnumbered. I know when I am beaten."

Jaheira crossed her arms. "Just so. Speak, and we may show mercy."

Dynaheir's hands tightened on her staff. "He calls upon Cyric, Prince of Lies? If truth should fall from his lips, 'twould be a wonder."

Khalid cleared his throat. "If—if he has aught to say—"

"Mercy is for better beings than this." Dynaheir tipped her stave towards the half-orc; he flinched back from it. "He squirms as a rat with its tail in the trap and waits only to flee."

"He's our only lead!" Sajantha broke in. "And he's surrendered; we're not going to kill him."

Sweaty gratitude shone on his face as he turned towards her. "I thank thee, sweet lady—thank you for your mercy!" He clasped his hands together, and took a step back. "There, in that chest: my letters; they're all yours. Take them, and leave me be."

Sajantha glanced over to where he pointed, and her head snapped around as she found herself jerked off the ground. The air squeezed free of her with a wheezing gasp as an arm enclosed around her chest like a vise.

"Fool," a hot breath growled against her ear.

_"_Let_—hnngh—_let go of me!" Of a size with Minsc, the half-orc hauled her up with ease; her feet kicked out well above the ground. "Put me down!" All she could see of him was the hairy green-gray knuckle holding the dagger to her throat—not his face, not his ears nor his eyes.

So close—so close to her neck, the blade glittered; Sajantha tried to hold her breath since each heaving gasp dragged it clutched at his hand and couldn't budge so much as a finger. _"Let go of me."_ The rest of the group hadn't lowered their weapons—nor had they moved. Nor could they, trapped as she.

"Minions!" His roar shook through her, the room rocking as he took jerky steps back. The blade-tip flicked ever-nearer her face; her cheek pressed hard against the metal of his chestplate to avoid it.

Motion scurried in her periphery as a flood of kobolds poured into the room and filled it.

Hard enough to breathe from this position—harder still to think. But whatever form of Draconic they spoke, could it be so very different? _"Nymuer ve," _she whispered, to the tiny ears tucked behind the horns on their heads. "_Voenllyl ve._" His chin brushed her head as he tightened his grip, choking her words, "_Nymuer jacion ti—"_

"Kill the intruders!" he shouted over her, as he jerked her back.

_"—svent jacion!_"

He stumbled in his retreat; the kobolds blocked his path. The first blow hit him in the arm. "I—what?" Another landed in his back, for the way he jolted—and then another, accompanied with a gust of magic, a perfect shot—Sajantha pulled away far enough to see a glowing arrow blooming from his throat.

The half-orc fell to the floor with her—with a crash—in a tangle of heavy limbs and heavier armor. Sajantha clawed free of his dead weight, gasping as she struggled to her feet amidst a sea of red eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

Against the walls, her companions waited, weapons ready. "Sajantha..." Jaheira warned.

Khalid took a step towards her with his sword out. He stared over the dozen kobolds with a crease upon his brow. "B-best move."

"They're fine, see?" Sajantha panted, breath still coming fast. One of the kobolds sneezed, another scratched at its ear. "We're fine."

"Better take care of 'em," Imoen said, casting a glance around, another arrow already strung on her bow. She shrugged and bit her lip. "You—you want 'em going after the miners again, soon as we're gone?"

A narrow snout snuffled against Sajantha's leg. None of the kobolds came taller than her waist.

"It was only his command forcing them. He's—he's dead, now. They can go free. Right? That's how it works, if his enchantment's done; he's not controlling them any longer." Aimless, the kobolds bumped into her and each other, muttering yips to themselves.

"'Tis not _his_ enchantment, not anymore, child," Dynaheir murmured. "Canst thou say how long thy magic will hold?"

"I... mine?" Sajantha's hand came up to her mouth as she looked down at the kobolds. "It wasn't ever a spell; I didn't mean—" Ensorcelled, still, blank faces stared back. Blindly. She licked her lips. "You can't, though; you can't just kill them, not like this. Not when they're like this."

"Thou wouldst wait til they fell upon thee?"

"You remember them gibberlings, right? Them wild things?" Imoen gestured. "Just because they're tiny don't mean nothing. You ain't so big, yourself." She shook her head. "You saw how quick they took down that miner; you wouldn't last half a second after they turned on you. Sajantha. C'mon, there's a bunch of them. Get out of there; you got to. Please."

Careful not to tread upon any tail or bare clawed foot, Sajantha maneuvered towards the edge of the room where her friends waited, weapons still in hand. "_Look at them_," she said, pointing at the clustered creatures. Helpless, harmless, they milled about. "They haven't got any control. They're not going to hurt anybody; you can't kill them."

"And when the spell wears off? What then?"

"Should they break free of thy enchantment, thou wilt likely be their first target."

"I—we'll worry about that, if it happens."

"And if it does not?" Jaheira persisted. "Do you intend to lead them as thralls from the mine?"

"Maybe!" Sajantha's hands clenched. "If I have to! I'm not about to leave them locked up in here. They didn't do anything to deserve this." At the whims of greater powers, they'd been tangled up in this mess sure as she herself. Only, they hadn't even been offered the chance to run.

Khalid stepped between them, palms raised. "Perhaps we might continue our investigation? We could leave the kobolds while we search, and if the spell has expired when we are finished, it may d-decide our action for us." He looked to Sajantha. "Would that sit well with you?"

Sajantha dragged her gaze from the kobolds toward Khalid's earnest eyes. "I suppose so," she said. What else could she do?

Dynaheir paused to rest a hand upon her shoulder. "Many is the mage who wouldst rely upon those of weaker minds to do his bidding... 'tis well to see such compassion for lesser creatures, but do not neglect to look after thine own self."

"Ehh, Minsc does not understand all the fuss," the ranger said, as he followed his charge from the anteroom. "Were we not enemies moments before? The little dog-demons are evil, no matter their size." He shook his head. "Boo tells me swords are not always the answer. But maybe he is just asking the wrong question."

Sajantha sank to the floor, watching as the rest of the group crossed the cave. "I wish there were something more I could do," she murmured. "I wish I were stronger." There must be a way to solve this without hurting anyone!

Khalid sat down beside her, stretching out on the stone floor with a weary sigh and a wary eye. On the other side of the passage, the kobolds waited, far less restless. "There are many types of strength," he said, "and I d-do not see that you are lacking." He leaned his head against the cave wall, tilting his eyes towards her. "I... I know I have said this before, but you often remind me of Gorion. He was ever one to take a stand and support the m-most seemingly hopeless endeavors. Against all reason. Many times, it seemed only his refusal to give in lent them any success at all."

Sajantha laughed a little. "So we're both stubborn, you're saying? And won't listen to good sense?"

Khalid smiled. "Aye. Though I say it as a compliment." He straightened, the softness gone from his face but not from his eyes. "You—you know, 'tis not your judgment Jaheira questions, but your safety. She is only concerned for you. We... we b-both feel a responsibility for you. For Gorion."

"I know." Sajantha glanced down at her skirt, tugging at its embroidered edge. "Thank you. I just... I wish I knew what he'd say about this." About all of it: whether the risk of magic was better than doing nothing. The weight of the wand on her belt seemed a reprimand for her inability; her father would never in his life have stood aside from something he believed in. That wasn't what Harpers did. That wasn't what _heroes _did; they took risks.

She closed her eyes and her father's shining eyes stared back at her. _"My child," he bowed his silver head, "do not fight me in this."_

A shadow slipped over her, familiar enough Sajantha didn't need to look up to know it. "I dunno what Mister G would tell you, but I don't doubt he'd be proud of you for sticking to it, even if he disagreed. Just..." Imoen scuffed her boot on the rocky floor, "maybe not if it put anyone in danger. 'Specially you."

_Her father looked up and his eyes blazed like the sun. "Run." _

And sometimes, heroes risked it all... even when they knew they couldn't win.

"It really depends how it turns out, doesn't it?" Sajantha said, sitting up. Whether the histories would label her a compassionate soul, or a foolish one. "The end may justify the means—when it works—but I don't suppose the intentions are ever enough to justify anything, when it doesn't." This could end very poorly, but wouldn't taking the safe route—the pragmatic one, killing all those kobolds in cold blood—make her feel far worse? She might not know what her father would say, but she knew what he would want: for her to follow her beliefs.

"Not that that's enough to stop you from trying, huh?" Imoen almost managed a grin. "Well. Looks like they found what they were looking for, whatever that orc-man was hiding. Time to get out of here, I think." She held out her hand and pulled Sajantha to her feet.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

The orc-man's hideout looked like it'd fallen right out of one of Winthrop's fancy-rooms, all decorated with pretty silks and patterns for the noble traveler. No few of that sort passed through Candlekeep, most coming just for the boast of it, whatever boost it gave their status. They usually hauled along some nice shinies with them, too.

A mountain of junk piled out of the chest, and a nice scattering of coins—_don't mind if I do!_— but it looked like the papers were the only thing Jaheira was interested in. She held up a handful of letters. "These aren't the sort of correspondence one ought retain."

"Incriminating?"

"Very. Thank the gods they incriminate others, as well; we may follow this chain to its next link."

Minsc waved around a sword he'd found—a nice, glowy one—and stopped midswing. "Tazok, eh?"

"Aye. And it appears the bandit problem may also have ties to this operation."

Khalid looked up from his own letter. "The man we killed was called 'Mulahey.' It doesn't sound as if Tazok were very happy with him. Small w-wonder he feared retribution for his failures."

Imoen shifted. _'We' killed, huh?_ Mulahey. Did knowing his name make it better, or worse? _She'd _killed him. Just her. He'd gotten distracted, lowered that dagger just a little, and she'd shot him right through the neck and watched him til his feet stopped twitching, til Sajantha was clear of him. She rubbed her arms.

"'Twas a good shot," Dynaheir murmured at her side, dark eyes knowing. "Clean and true."

Imoen ducked her head. "Right," she said, only her voice scratched out wrong; she cleared her throat. "Had to be done, yeah? I know how it works."

Dynaheir nodded, eyes too sad for her smile. "That does not mean it must ever be easy."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Fallen from the half-orc's pockets, a small disk lay upon the floor. Sajantha reached down, and identified it the moment she touched it—before turning it over to see the jawless skull—as her stomach turned.

"The Mad God," she whispered. _Cyric. _God of Deception, God of Murder, God of Strife. He'd attained those titles through the use of them, a mortal who'd murdered the God of Murder ten years before.

"Don't touch that," Jaheira said, her uneasiness enough of an echo of Sajantha's own to double it. To drop it.

The unholy symbol stared up at her from the floor. Could she just leave it there? Might its negative energies be enough to seep into the ground and poison the mines on its own? She bent to pick it up, once again—but what to do with it? She clenched it into her fist,_"Ekhess ehiss," _and willed it to disintegrate.

The purple skull seemed to laugh. She drew her arm back to throw it into the lake—but how would that be better?—then threw it into the cave wall, instead. It made such a clatter as it tumbled out of sight that she could not tell whether or not it had broken along the way.

* * *

The cave split again, another antechamber not near so lived-in as Mulahey's furnished alcove; the rock here was bare but for the metal bars that split it.

Within the darkness of the cell huddled three prisoners. Nearest them, a slight figure slumped against the outer bars, letting out a low moan at their approach. He seemed quite pale even in the dimness; luminescent skin lent him an otherworldly glow. The other two inhabitants were more familiar.

"I warned him if he wouldn't shut up, I'd really give him something to whine about," Montaron shrugged.

Jaheira's lips thinned as she knelt beside the wounded elf.

Xzar's teeth gleamed white against the darkness. "Ah, Sajantha!" He leaned forward, face framed by the bars he gripped. "Over a tenday or two, it's been. And still alive and kicking, I see." He lowered his voice as he lowered his head towards his partner: "You owe me a gold." The shadow that flickered across Montaron's face might have been a wink.

"I am so happy to see you! I knew you must arrive, eventually, though you surely took your time about it."

"See ye've done nothing to improve yer company since last we met, though," Montaron muttered.

Jaheira's eyes lifted. "Nor you your manners. Watch your tongue—'tis with ease you may find your rescue reversed."

"Yeah, you're welcome," Imoen chimed in as she tugged the cell lock free.

Her healing spell completed, Jaheira pulled herself and the elf to their feet. "I've not seen the sun in months," the man lamented, brushing off his robes. Standing, he was the same height as Jaheira, but his slouch slumped him smaller. "Five and eighty days are far too long for one of the fair folk to live as a dwarf."

"You're welcome," Imoen repeated—to his back, as the elf strode past, ignoring her.

Minsc pulled his gaze from his new treasure, a finely-wrought weapon. "Is this sword yours, elf-man?"

The elf's lips twitched, more a grimace than a smile. His hands twitched, too, as if ready to snatch the blade from Minsc's hold. "It is more than just a sword; this is my most valued possession."

"I understand," said Minsc. "Things are often more than what they seem. Why, some would take Boo for an ordinary hamster!" he laughed.

"Yesss..." the elf said, relaxing fractionally only after he reclaimed his weapon. "A small victory." He held the blade aloft; it caught the meager light and glowed. He lowered it with a sigh. "Yet not enough to make a difference. When the quest is so impossible, such minor advancements only underscore how hollow life truly is."

"Oh, yeah, all it'll take is a blast of sunshine to cheer that one up." Imoen rolled her eyes.

Sajantha tilted her head. "What _would_ make you happy, sir?"

"Happy?" he startled, lowering his blade to affix her with a bright-blue gaze. "What is the use of being happy? Shall I choose to be happy; is it a switch that may be turned on and off?" He dipped his chin, his sword-tip dipped to the ground. "No, I am as I am. With little choice, and less happiness. If I pursued happiness and lost it, why, I'd have even less. May as well ignore such frivolity; it is of little consequence, in the end."

Hands on hips, Imoen shook her head. "I don't know that happiness is a choice, but getting stuck on being miserable as you are sure seems to be!"

"I've known people that had less: trapped far longer, with far less chance of rescue, and still not half so gloomy as he." Sajantha glanced at Imoen. "Just what do you suppose Miirym would have to say about him?"

"She'd snap his head right off and complain of the sour taste."

"A woman after me own heart," Montaron muttered, securing his own gear to his belt.

The elf sighed. "I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers. With a task so large, failure is inevitable. And—if by some slim chance you succeed—it will simply be another doom that ends you."

"Gods, what's your problem!" Imoen turned to Sajantha, shaking her head. "Don't listen to him jawing on. He may be pretty, but his words sure ain't! Let's get gone, and good riddance."

Sajantha nodded, hiding a shiver. 'Twas time to check upon the kobolds.

* * *

_((**Author's note**: I've tried to thank you all individually, but I'd just like to repeat: thank you so, so much to everyone who has commented! I have to admit my energy levels fluctuate wildly (and don't always cooperate with when I actually have free time), so sometimes getting feedback (and, you know, not feeling like I am throwing my thoughts away into an unresponsive blank void) is enough to spur me on and give me some inspiration/motivation-so when I say I appreciate it and it means a lot, I truly do mean that... it helps me more than I can say without emoting all over, ew. ;D _

_And, since I am ostensibly writing this for the purposes of improving my skills, it's not like I expect (or want) all the feedback to be positive, either, so I value you taking the time to share any thoughts at all and help me out: with constructive criticism or simply encouragement. So: THANKS. ^^))_


	16. Chapter 16

"They've left." Not a sign of the kobolds remained in the anteroom but the damp odor that had dogged their every step thus far. The wave of relief that struck Sajantha knocked the air from her along with her tension; she let out a sigh.

_"Thric ti sjerit," _a strange voice replied, varying in pitch and speed: a mix of consonants barked sharp and vowels slurred in a growl.A single kobold yet remained, leaving the shadows to shuffle towards her. Garbed in faded red leather, only scraps of it adorned his wiry form, hanging low as he crouched down several feet from her and stared up.

Sajantha lowered herself to her knees, close as she could come to his eye-level.

"You stupid humans think we is weak just because we is small." The kobold uncoiled, stretching up onto large-taloned feet as he pointed at her. "But we has systems. We has smarts. Kobolds be good more than wizard playthings."

Sajantha rocked back upon her heels, shoulders sinking. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean—well—I didn't feel as though I had a choice."

He lifted a clawed finger to his temple. "Mind-slaves no has choice, neither: we no hears if you asks." He gave his head a shake. "Kobolds no listens to stupid human, anyway. But you breaks pig-man's magic. And you no tries kills us. So we lets you speak."

"You understood me, then?"

The kobold's lips pulled back in what could have been a smile. Or possibly a grimace. "You's accent bad. I speaks Common better."

"You do speak it very well."

"Not so much. You just speaks Yipyak worse." His long nose wrinkled. "Sound like dragon."

"Aye, I learned it from a dragon. Kobolds were the ones who first came up with Draconic's written form, weren't they?"

He swung his head, bony shoulders hunching up. "Dragons force us slaves, too." His orange gaze glittered up at her. "We done speaking? You lets us go, now? No shooting in back?" His eyes darted toward Imoen's bow. "No more magic? We's gots magic, too."

"No more magic," Sajantha agreed.

His voice barked out in a higher-pitched yap, _"Yoscam!"_

Around them, the darkness took form, the shadows bubbled to life: a dark swarm of kobolds all flowed towards the exit, shooting glances over narrow shoulders as they dribbled out the doorway.

The last—the one whom had spoken—stopped beneath it. "I is sorcerer. I knows Draconic: _Vinxa._" He turned, his tail curling a bit as he looked over his shoulder. "But... is possible some of us is leaving yous traps." He shrugged. "We can no trust humans. You understands?"

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"That be the last of 'em."

Imoen bent down beside Montaron. "So that little windy-thing, the spring trap?" It had a spell stored right in it, so when it snapped shut, it sparked—like tinder meeting flint—and set off a fireball. Gods help the poor sod that stumbled into one. "You just tug the wire out from the top, and it won't go off?"

Montaron brushed off his pants as he straightened. "Just so."

"So, it goes dead, then. Can't re-use it, or nothing?" Maybe like those spell components; there had to be something there worth salvaging. Seemed a waste, all these pieces.

"_I _could," the halfling replied. "Though it don't seem as we can say the same for you." He gathered up some of the materials, tucking them into the side of his pack. "Way's clear, now. Yer welcome."

Sajantha put her hands on her hips and arched an eyebrow at him. "You, too."

He bared his tiny white teeth with a grin. "Aye, thanks to ye for the rescue, girlies." His gaze slipped to the Harpers, who stood watching stiff as staves. "Pray this be the last time our paths cross."

"I shouldn't mind," said Xzar, "though let it be somewhere—and someone—" he rolled his eyes to the elf— "less dismal, next time, yes?" He wiggled his fingers. "Ta!"

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Candlekeep's stone walls stared out over the moonlit sea; the white-capped waves seemed reflections of the wispy clouds far above but for their murmured motion.

A shadow descended at Sajantha's side. Its gentle attempt at a nudge near-knocked her sideways.

"Miirym!" A surge of surprise sent her to unsteady feet. "What are you doing out here!" Sajantha glanced up at the watchful walls before she dared a look at her friend. "Someone will see you. You'll get in trouble; you're not supposed to be out here." Fear caught her in its fingers, tickling up her spine. "I'm not ready yet. It's not safe for you. I'll tell you—I'll come back to you, when I'm ready."

"I know." The moonlight set her skull aglow; the wraith-dragon seemed to blink as a slant of her head cast her eye-holes into shadow. "She will, she wills it; I know she will come. She can't stay away. She carries my dreams for me: so heavy, too heavy. How can we fly, with this weighting?" Her voice lifted. "How can we wait, without flying?"

Miirym's head tilted away as she soared upward.

"I promised I would come back! Miirym!" Sajantha raced after her, her outstretched hand catching only the cold air that still stung her eyes. "Miirym, _please_, just wait for me!"

"Come with me!" Miirym cried, her trumpeting filling the air, a symphony of sound, of wind and wild.

"I can't—" Sajantha gasped, out of breath, "I can't reach you." Her feet dragged as she reached the keep's perimeter, came face-to-face with its unyielding gates. The silver speck disappeared into the stars, and Sajantha lowered her head, sagging against the stone.

A great gust of wind staggered her from behind; Sajantha turned to catch a glimpse of shimmering scales rippling over muscled limbs, of a pair of wings stretched wide enough to dwarf the towers beside them. The ground trembled as great clawed feet settled upon it. The dragon's tail swept over the sandy rock, and Miirym gave it a fond look before raising shining eyes to Sajantha. Full—full of light and wonder, breath trapped in her chest—Sajantha stared upward.

"These walls are not yours," the dragon told her, moonlight dancing on every silver scale, twinkling through her eyes. "They are the walls of men. Why do you carry them with you?"

And for the first time, Sajantha watched her friend's face as she threw back her head—her _neck!—_and laughed, full of light enough to fill the sky, "My darling: if you want to fly, then _fly._"

* * *

Sajantha took in another breath as she leaned back against her pack; the air outside seemed especially fresh; even the night air was invigorating. The stew Jaheira had concocted lay cooling beside her as Sajantha squinted through the dusk to the spellbook open upon her lap. Did her father have spells to control creatures? Hardly the sort of thing he might ever make use of. She saw other spells, though: wild, angry things of flame and destruction, spells of holding and paralyzation. The sort of forces he could have unleashed upon his attackers. His killers. Why hadn't he?

Because he hadn't been practicing them. He'd retired, he'd withdrawn to a quiet life to take care of _her_; he wasn't an adventurer any longer, not the same man who had first gathered such spells.

But he'd thought them worth knowing, once.

The pages crinkled beneath her fingertips as her grip tightened. Not Candlekeep—not home—but no rules, here, either. Nothing stopping her.

A shadow fell across the page.

"Heya," said Imoen. She fell to her knees with an "Oof," then kicked back her legs to sprawl out beside her. "Think I could maybe borrow that?" she asked, leaning her head towards Sajantha. To the spellbook.

"Why?" Sajantha stared at her. "I mean... what do you need it for?"

"For Dynaheir's not got all the spells I need. She said might be Gorion did, as he wasn't no specialist. Had a little bit of everything, I bet." She chewed on her lip. "What do you think?"

"Oh." Sajantha turned the tome over in her hands but couldn't quite let go. "Well. Don't you think you ought to learn some more basic ones, first?"

"Why?" Imoen asked. "All the really good ones come later." Imoen lost hold of her straight face after a moment, and burst out a laugh. "Lighten _up, _Sajantha; I ain't going nowhere with it. Not too far, at least."

"That's fine." Sajantha shook herself. "I'm sorry, here—take it. I had something I wanted to talk to Dynaheir about, anyway." She dug through her bag, found the notebook stashed inside it. "Ah."

"That your journal? Added anything juicy in there?"

"Not anything since Candlekeep." Doubling as a diary and a collection of her research, the notebook was filled with every thought she'd put to paper. "But, all this talk of dragons... I dreamed of Miirym last night."

"You're glowing."

Sajantha smiled. "I can't help it; it was wonderful, I feel so—"

"No-no," Imoen said. "You are _glowing_."

"Oh!" Sajantha looked down, and flecks of light sprinkled the air around her, growing dimmer as they fell free of her.

"What is that?" Imoen brushed her off. "Like magic dust, or something. Might be I should study up some dispels, huh? Should we get Dynaheir?"

"I think it's all gone." Sajantha shook out her sleeves. "But, aye—I did want to speak with her."

"Think Dynaheir can help you with Miirym?" Imoen shrugged, only one arm going up as she held the spellbook with the other. "Couldn't hurt to ask, I guess."

The mage was reclining not far from her guardian nor the campfire; she sat straighter as they approached.

"Sajantha here's got a question for ya," Imoen said, sitting beside Dynaheir, spellbook across her lap.

Eyebrows raised in welcome, Dynaheir stared up, expectant. "Thou must speak, of course."

"Well, it's nothing so formal, not really," Sajantha began, "but since you study abjuration? I was wondering... I know they're opposing schools, but have you given any thought to how such spells might react in conjunction with conjuration? I had some notes in my journal..." She flipped through pages of scribbled-out plans before she reached one she hadn't crossed off yet.

Sajantha leaned toward Dynaheir, pointing at the page. "I've this idea: to reverse a binding spell, perhaps with an inversion of a summoning circle. But I'd need a powerful dispel. Do you think the two could work together? Or might it negate the target?" She held out the paper for the mage to examine.

"'Negate'?" Dynaheir took the page, but didn't look at it. "This target thou speakest of, 'tis a creature of magic?"

"In a manner of speaking..."

The woman's dark eyes drifted down to the paper, before flashing back up. "And what is thine aim?"

"She's been trying to set free a dragon," Imoen told her.

Dynaheir's brow lowered. "What manner of dragon?"

"Why?" Sajantha asked, just as Imoen said, "A dead one."

Sajantha glanced between them. "Why should it matter what sort of dragon she is? She's my friend. Though she was a silver, if you must know."

"'Was' is the word, there; she's an undead one—I reckon that matters more."

Sajantha sucked in her cheeks. "I suppose—but only as it would affect the parameters of the circle: banishing creatures involves different magics than unmaking undead." She looked back at Dynaheir. "I don't want to hurt her, though, that's the thing. Might abjuration offer a solution? I thought with the right balance of weaves, possibly..."

Dynaheir's skeptical face seemed to shout her answer for her. "Thy thought is to unbind an undead dragon?"

"Yes," Sajantha pulled her notebook to her chest. "As I said." She'd 'thought', aye: thought and thought and _thought_, but 'twas _all _she'd done; her soft suppositions lacked the hard facts to build beyond the conceptual stage.

"I fear I know little enough of such bindings, child." Dynaheir uncrossed her legs and stood, holding out the page with an apologetic shrug. "It may be thou art on thine own, but meddling with such strong magics is not to be done lightly."

Lightly! Sajantha had been puzzling this out for _years_, even if recent events had left her without access to the upper floors of the keep, and no way to confirm her theories. She simply hadn't had a chance to discuss them with any experts, since none save her father were even aware of her attempts. She slowly returned the page back into her journal.

"You'll figure it out, eventually," Imoen said. "You got plenty of time."

"And that's all Miirym's got," Sajantha murmured. Time. _A shower of sand, a rain of pebbles, slow at first—but, oh! They still will drown, they still will bury. _Two-thousand years had trickled by since the dragon had flown the skies. _"_I promised I would save her; I'm not going to forget something like that." Even if she'd let herself be distracted this last month. "Even if it takes me my whole life; that's nothing to her. She'll just keep going on, and on and on..." Sajantha pressed her lips together, shook her head. "I can't let her live trapped like that, not if I can help."

"You—you know she ain't alive, not really."

"That's not her fault! I—" Sajantha sighed. "I don't want to argue about this."

"Yeah. I know. I don't, either. Just... done thought you'd have other things on your mind, now."

"I did, for a time. When there wasn't anything I could do. But now... now that you're studying magic... I'll have someone to help me cast it. Right?"

A slow smile stretched Imoen's cheeks; she gave her head a quick shake. "You gotta figure it out, first. And, who knows? Yeah. Might be by then, I'll be an archwizard, myself."

* * *

**(Author's Note)** I've tried to explain enough of Miirym that hopefully her backstory can be deduced whether or not you have read my prologue, so, I'm sorry if it's unclear, but I'm more sorry if you didn't read it. ;) And very sorry that I'm writing these author's notes; I should probably stop doing that, blegh.

For some reason (because I have more faith in my art than my writing? xD), I assume you are all aware of my deviantart account and/or are only reading this in the first place because I incessantly spam about this fic there, buuuut if you haven't seen it, I was inspired by Sajantha's dream to draw this piece:

artastrophe. deviantart dotcom/ art/ sparks-of-light-398616291 (sorry, this was such a weird trial-and-error to figure out how to stick a link in; hopefully you can decode it.)

(and, um, if you actually haven't seen any of my BG art, then HEY, HAVE PILES OF IT! artastrophe. deviantart dotcom/ gallery/40955741 )


	17. Chapter 17 (Bandit Camp)

"It shouldn't be too much work to find these bandits, if there's so many as everyone says." Sajantha leaned forward on the rug, repositioning to heat her other side. The fire they sat around this eve was in an actual _fireplace_—and a familiar one, at that.

The common room of the Nashkel Inn was bare but for their group and the bleary-eyed innkeeper. Silly to think there might be another patron about—certainly not this time of night—and the crickets outside did not sound so very much like the creaking of floorboards, but the hallway kept calling her eye. Still empty.

"Finding _them_ is not the trick," Jaheira said. Leaning against the wall, she had a view of the whole room, but her gaze turned inward. "'Tis the finding of their hideout—their leader—that will be."

"This Tazok?" Dynaheir had claimed the only armchair, though she perched primly upon the edge of it.

"Oh, the letters? Aye, they're in my pack." Sajantha had packed them in with her notebook, her scroll case had kept all those loose papers tucked tight together.

Dynaheir nodded. "It should be simple work to divine their origin, if Tazok himself wert the one to pen them. Imoen—couldst thou gather my materials?"

Imoen leapt to her feet. "Yes, ma'am!"

"I'll get the letters, then," Sajantha said, rising. As she passed by the corner of the bar, she gave the large shoulder sticking out a pat.

Minsc swiveled his stool around to nod at her. "Boo has fallen asleep, already," he whispered. "I should like to join him." He cast Dynaheir a mournful look.

Khalid laughed softly from the barstool beside him as he sipped his drink. "I hear you, friend. 'Tis a late night after many long days."

"But we ought to be able to sleep in, for once." Jaheira had promised them at least a day of recovery.

"Sleep in? Have you _met_ Jaheira?" Khalid sighed as he set down his mug, eyebrows drooping. "I will make sure she d-does not wake the rest of you."

"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, little man." Minsc clapped him on the back.

Sajantha followed Imoen down the hallway. "So Dynaheir's got you hopping around when she says 'jump', does she?"

One of Imoen's shoulders came up in a shrug. "Beats sweeping up after ol' Puffguts, don't it?"

"Does it?"

Imoen rolled her eyes as she passed through the doorway. "And how! But you won't believe all the stuff getting stuffed in my brain."

"You're learning lots of spells, then?"

"Nah, not so much, actually. Just the pieces what go in 'em." She pulled free one of Dynaheir's packs full of spell components, tipping out a handful of utensils across the bed. "Guess you have to know all kinds of rules and things, first; she's got me memorizing components and pronouncings and what-have-you. But I got my own spellpouch! Well, second one, I guess, what with that wizard's. Not that I've got so many components to stuff in there or anything, yet, but... Sajantha? Are you..."

"Imoen." Sajantha's voice sounded far away for how much louder hummed her blood. "Don't move."

And Imoen obeyed—just her eyes darting around as she clenched her jaw. But she couldn't see behind her. Behind her, where the shadow flickered.

Sajantha stretched out her hand. "_Evnek!" _But instead of the spell dissipating shadows as it ought, the candles in the room all flared to light as one—_good enough!_—revealing the assassin ducked down.

Right behind Imoen, though, he still crouched beside her. Any spell, any spell, just get his attention!

Sajantha sucked in a breath_. "Clax ixen!"_ A blinding burst of light flared and fire wooshed from her fingers, taking all the light in the room like a gust of air had blown out the candles—and swept the embers all into his face.

He staggered back, the shadows surging anew to swallow him. A face full of candle-fire wasn't going to stop him, not for long, but it gave Imoen time enough to dart to the side. "_Qanesc!_" she cried, and the room lit up, once again.

With no shadows to blur his edges, the man stood clear and firm—and unconcerned. He shook his head once, dismissive. And something in his deliberation, in that calm control as he reached into his tunic, reminded her of another.

_Wizard. _

And, indeed, 'twas not a dagger nor poisoned darts that flew from his outstretched fingers, but a spell.

Already twisting her ring upon its chain, only the edges of his spell snaked by her, cobwebby fingers that grasped at her mind. Sajantha ducked her head and emerged on the other side, breathless as she blinked away their shadows.

The assassin paused only to unstrap a blade from his belt. Between them, Imoen screamed as she clutched her head. She crumpled against the wall, knees buckling, and disappeared on the other side of the bed.

Open door at her back, Sajantha took a step forward, instead. Her pounding heart was a rush, a river in her veins; her mind raced just as fast: what spell? What spell might he not counter? No components with her. But, Dynaheir's open pack had spilled across the bed...

She missed the words of his spell, only the effect of it visible as the room shrank: full, with five figures. She leapt atop the bed, scattering spell components and instruments to fan out before her. Imoen, trapped in the terror of the spell, lay huddled and gasping beneath the open window.

He circled 'round—all three of him—between them and the door, but Imoen was at her back, now; Imoen was at her side. Sajantha's hands closed over a small metal rod spilled free of Dynaheir's pack.

Iron! She could use it for a holding spell. What were the motions to it, though; could she recall what she had read and not yet practiced? She leveled it at their attacker, and a surge of magic trembled down her fingers—_"Zexenuma!"_—only to strike the rod and spark free.

Jolted, she dropped the metal with a cry and clutched her hand to her chest. A curl of smoke twisted up from the bedspread. One of the images had been struck, had gone motionless, just one—

The other two were casting. Twin missiles flew through the air, magic that knocked the breath from her, knocked her to the ground beside Imoen, lungs afire as she gasped in a pained breath. Imoen thrashed away.

His low voice had begun another spell.

Curled up before her, Imoen hid her head and wept. Sajantha pulled herself to the edge of the bed—reached again for the bar—her fingers closed 'round it and sizzled. _"Zexenuma!"_

Another of the mirror-images froze, the other whirling as the room re-darkened, near-on seven-feet of muscled warrior filling the doorway with his massive silhouette. Magic gathered at the assassin's fingertips as his mouth moved, voice lost beneath Minsc's roar.

_"Zexenuma!"_ Sajantha cried again, throat hoarse as the magic burned from her mouth, flared through her fingers. The man froze, and Minsc's fist connected with his face; he crumpled to the ground. The surge spilled the melting metal from her grasp and she grabbed at the bedspread, coughing, as she sank to the floor.

Imoen kicked out, jerking away with a cry. "It's okay," Sajantha croaked, reaching after her. "It's okay." Her friend stiffened, and went limp, arms coming up around her.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"How's it feel, being the one to rescue me, for a change?" Imoen felt her friend smile against her cheek as Sajantha pulled her to her feet.

"Better than you're feeling, I bet."

"Whew," Imoen said, pulling back. "Yeah." She held her stomach. "I feel sicker 'n that time I stabbed you." She touched her forehead, and like she was made of jelly, the whole world jiggled.

Sajantha shook her head. "'Scratched' me."

Imoen's laugh came out a cough. "If you want to call it that."

"A 'stab' would have gone through me, right?" Sajantha waved her arm. "It just glanced off."

"Oh, sure, stick to your story, if that makes you feel better." Didn't help Imoen, none. Better not to think about it, though—and now, worse a time as ever—when her nerves were still worn raw from that spell ripping through her mind, as much a mess as the one across-the-bed and onto-the-floor around them; Imoen winced at Dynaheir's spell components everywhere.

Dynaheir looked none-too-pleased, herself. "Iron," she said. The misshapen lump of metal hung from her pinched fingers as she examined it. "A mage needeth iron to focus a holding spell."

Behind her, the bounty hunter stayed frozen-in-place on the floor, but Khalid had already done hog-tied him for when he woke up. Minsc leaned back—was almost using the sod for a footstool—just waiting for the spell to wear off.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that." Sajantha gestured at the clutter. "All of this."

But Dynaheir wasn't looking at that; she hadn't let go of that rod. "This is silver—not iron."

"Must be why it didn't work so well." Sajantha flexed her hand. Still red, but Jaheira had healed the worst of it.

Dynaheir turned away, hand to her neck. "It should not have worked at all."

Sajantha's shoulders came up in a shrug as she caught Imoen's eye. "It worked," she said, voice real quiet like she only half-wanted to argue. "Isn't that what matters?"

A wave of queasiness came back; Sajantha reached out to steady her. Imoen smiled. "Guess so. And guess I'd better thank you, too."

Fingers tightened against Imoen's arm as Sajantha glanced away. "I'm just glad I could do something," she said.

* * *

"We thank you for your restraint," the mayor smiled. Imoen figured—like with the innkeep—he was just happy to see the back of them and all the trouble that tailed them. "There's been deaths enough around here. The authorities'll deal with him, make no mistake."

"He's a magic-user," Sajantha warned. "You ought to take care with him."

"Aye," the man said, chomping down on his lip, eyes going sideways, "we've had our fill of those..."

"Wizard or sorcerer, he ain't no good without a voice," Imoen said.

Still lassoed up, and Dynaheir smacked a spell of silence into his gob; the assassin couldn't do more than glare up at them. Nice-looking fella, if you didn't look at his eyes shouting murder.

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Not enough of her supplies remained for a full-scale divination, but Dynaheir's magics had located their target within a handful of miles. Small good that did, really, for they hadn't made it but halfway through the forests before being waylaid.

A half-dozen men—that Sajantha could see—surrounded them, arrows nocked. _Bandits._

Like their group was a body, and they the muscles that flexed, a tension knit them close together, hands poised upon their own weapons. Sajantha felt their strain at her back, taut as the bowstrings around them. She took a step forward to shake free of it.

Covered in road-stains and the dappled shadows of the wood, a roughly-shaven man—the leader?—leveled his bow at her. "Hold, there—do ye wish to die?" His hands did not waver, though his eyes darted around til they landed on Sajantha, trapped. Might she trap him, as well?

Khalid's shield could not cover them all. "Even beneath the dark'ning trees, 'tis well to meet friends on such an eve." She beamed, dipping her head with her curtsy.

"Eh? Friends?" The man took a step aside to glance behind him, ensuring she could see the row of weapons that waited. "Is it your eyes or your mind that ain't working? Drop yer weapons and mayhap you'll live out the day."

But Sajantha didn't have a weapon. Not a visible one. She spread her empty hands, taking another step forward, and claimed the bandit's eyes, instead. "It can't be our weapons you're after, unless you fear us making use of them? You needn't fear us, sir, for we're on the same side. Save your fear for your leader; he'll be cross with you for standing in our way." She wove the truth of it into her voice, "We're no ordinary travelers, not at all. But he'd best be the one to make the call."

"Call, what call? We've one thing to do with travelers: loot 'em. Or kill 'em, and then loot 'em."

The hush of the forest's bated breath filled her ears, soft as the grass she stepped upon. "Travelers, perhaps, but we're not as such. What do you do with recruits?"

"Recruits?" Off-guard, his confused eyes allowed her closer before he frowned, narrowing them.

"Your leader ought be the one to inspect them, I suppose? 'Twould be best, for all involved; we'll just let him decide. I wouldn't wish him to be vexed with you for ignoring potential resources. We've far more worth than blades and coin, to be sure."

"Save your sweet-talk for the boss, girlie." He lowered his bow. A half-moment later, both sides did the same, tension slipping out like a sigh. The forest breathed again. "We'll be taking ye to meet him, aye."

"Thank you." Muscles jumped beneath her fingers as she drew her hand away.

"Don't know why you're thanking me," he muttered, blinking. "Don't know why you're thinking he'd take you. This right here's your last chance to change your mind. We'll take your iron, aye, but might be he'll take your life."

"I understand."

He gave his head a shake. "This way, then." Sajantha fell into step beside him as the other bandits—their escort—melted back into the trees around them. "I'm Teven. Top of the chain o' command, right here, but every one of these here men's higher 'n you—you ain't even a recruit, yet. Don't forget it. Keep to your own place, do what anyone tells you, and we won't have a problem."

The other bandits flanked them, the red patches on their clothing catching patterns of sunlight through the leaves. A half-dozen men, only—no more had appeared—and no doubt the group could take them on, if they wished. Jaheira's eyes met hers; her raised brow seemed to be asking permission.

Sajantha hurriedly turned away. "Don't happen to have any of those uniforms in our size, do you?"

Teven snorted. "You set your sights high, don't ya? This here's the Black Talon's own gear." He squinted down at her. "But you need some armor, sure enough. Tazok takes you on, and we'll outfit ye proper, don't worry for that."

"Perfect!" She could use some new outfitting.

He shook his head, bemused by her enthusiasm. "So you want to be a bandit, huh. Wouldn't take your sort for the type."

"We're as deceptive as our looks, and no mistake." Sajantha tried one of Imoen's winks. The man laughed, though she couldn't tell whether she'd pulled it off or failed miserably.

"You might be good at wheedlin' around, but that alone ain't gonna cut it. I doubt ye've the stomach for this."

Her chin rose. "I'm tougher than I look."

"You sure must be," he said. "Little thing like you..." He ran a hand through his hair. "What're you thinking, really? This ain't no life. You've got a choice, now. A choice that won't last when we get to the camp."

"A choice?" Sajantha folded her arms. "I don't feel as though I do, anymore, not really. If I don't do this, if I don't keep going... I haven't got anything else."

Teven pursed his lips. "Some of us chose this life... but, aye, no few of us as you say. Mayhap you'll fit right in. Lotta us don't got nothing else, neither. Lanner here's got a wife and kids, back in Iriaebor. And I got me a wee sister." He bit back a smile. "Haven't thought of her much in awhile. Guess she'd be about your age, now." He cleared his throat. "Look, kid. It's not too late. What's a few swords and some coin? I don't know if you understand. If... if the boss says you die, then you die. Won't be no chance to surrender, then." He shook his head. "And he ain't much one for sweet-talking."

Tazok. "What's he like?"

"Half-man, they be calling him, but not to his face. Half-ogre, he is. Though there's no halfsing on his temper; his bite's as bad as his bark. Not one to be crossing," he rested a finger against the side of his nose, giving her a perfect wisp of a wink, "nor gossiping about."

"Hate workin' with scum like that." One of the bandits spit to the side. "Half an ogre, and he's half-again worse 'n them hobgoblins."

"Blasted Chill!" agreed another one. "We weren't workin' fer the same boss, I'd kill them hobgoblin scum fer the coppers they carry!"

"Watch yer tongue, Arry." No venom in it, Teven wore a cheerful smile. "'Least they don't stink as much as the gnolls."

"Gnolls?" Sajantha repeated. "Hobgoblins?"

Teven's smile flattened out as he looked back at her. "Changing your mind? Getting jumpy?" His eyes hardened. "Good. You should be." The evening air had cooled; goosebumps prickled across her skin. "Be another half-a-day again to the camp. We'll rest up here." He grabbed her arm. "You lot won't be causing no trouble, now?"

"Of course not," Sajantha said.

He grunted and let go.

* * *

"Caught this one lurking about."

A figure fell to the ground before her; Sajantha drew back her legs as he rolled past in a tangled cloud of cloak and dust, stopping just short of the campfire.

Teven hunched his shoulders in a shrug. "Slit his throat; we've fools enough to babysit already."

At her feet, the figure struggled upright, hood falling back to reveal pointed ear-tips.

"He's—he's with us!" Sajantha leaned towards the fallen man, hand outstretched.

All of the men turned to look at her. But so did the captive. He possessed the same elegant proportions of all elves—slim nose and high cheekbones—but in his eyes, Sajantha met a chill as staggering and vast as the one that stung her fingers; she stood upon the edge of a great chasm of swirling dark, and it stole her breath and all her warmth. She jerked back her hand.

"Yessir," Imoen stepped forward. "He's our scout, yup, but we figured he'd done run off; ain't seen him in days. Decided you're better off with us, after all; eh, buddy?"

A hush in the air, a pause that expanded as the bandits waited to see his reaction.

The elf blinked. "It seems so," he said, sitting up. The bandits stepped back and allowed him to straighten as he looked around. "You've my apologies."

"You may not be so lucky, next time," Sajantha murmured. "Best take care."

His nod was stiff as his spine.

"Yeah," said Teven, "keep an eye on 'em." He gave them one last squinting look and shuffled back to his bedroll.

Imoen's eyes followed after him. "Dunno if you ever had that one fooled, but he's sure suspicious, now." She chewed on her lip. "Better watch it."

"Are you alright?"

The elf flinched back from the hand Sajantha reached out. He stared at the ground, speaking low and fast. "If you are with the bandits, then know that we are enemies. You saved my life, so I will warn you before."

"Before what?"

He lifted his head, blue eyes cold. "Before I kill you."

Imoen and Sajantha shared a glance. "We ain't bandits, not exactly."

His gaze scanned between them, behind them. "Then what are you doing with these men? They speak as though you are their prisoner, yet you move freely among them."

"We're enlisting. We will be among them—soon enough."

"You are serious?" His forehead knotted. "I implore you, do not do this. You do not want anything to do with these men—you know nothing of them."

"We know what we're doing!" Sajantha sank down, lowering her voice, "We're to meet with their leader."

"Tazok," the elf breathed. He reached for his bow, examining it before looking up. "You spared my life... if you've not yet joined the bandits in their savagery, perhaps it is not too late for you."

Sajantha leaned forward, within range of the dagger strapped to his chest. His eyes did not leave her. "We're undercover," she whispered.

"_Alae_." He smiled, then, but there was something wrong with it, like his lips didn't quite work to get the message to the rest of his face. "Shevarash has guided me well."

"Shevarash?" The elven deity of loss. Of vengeance. "Has he sent you here?"

Even the shadow of the smile fled from his face. "It is Tazok who has set my path. He took everything from me. He is a monster." The elf shook his head, lips pressed together. "You have never been tortured—I cannot explain it. It stripped me of my dignity, my hope, my will; he bled all that I was from me. Yet it was nothing compared to the loss of my beloved. I would have died for her. Every day, I wish I had: my heart beats now only to avenge her. I will have Tazok's heart, as he took from me my own."

Again, that emptiness pulsed: a dark hole she stood upon the edge of; Sajantha leaned back, swallowing. "I'm so sorry."

His head jerked up. "How can you be? You know nothing of loss."

"I—I know enough."

"Forgive me, but—" he grimaced, "you know nothing. You are still so young—you are yet innocent of life, of death. It does not haunt your sight; stars shine right through your eyes."

Sajantha glanced down at her hands.

"May the Protector keep you strong and Lady Goldheart keep you smiling." He looked away. "But where we go to... I cannot believe it." His dark eyes glittered, cold even in the firelight, as he bowed his head. "This is for him." His fingers caressed a feathered green arrow. She didn't need to touch it to identify its enchantment: poison.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Do you think... do you think my father would wish for me to avenge him?" Sajantha stared over at the elf, curls shaking about her head. "Am I supposed to be consumed with that? Vengeance?"

"Mr. G... he died trying to _protect_ you."

And Sajantha stiffened, a flinch sure as a jolt right through her, however much she tried to hide it.

"No," Imoen hurried, "I don't mean—what I'm trying to say, is—that's the last thing he'd want. To put you in danger on account of him."

Sajantha's voice stayed flat, just her eyebrow rising a bit as she stared at the ground. "You mean, what I did to him?"

"My foot fits right in my mouth, don't it? That's not what I meant, not at all. Sajantha." Imoen shook her head, reaching a hand out to her knee. "Gorion wouldn't want you to hurt—wouldn't want you to fall apart—not for him, or for anything. 'N he sure didn't take care of you for twenty years to have you throw it all away."

Sajantha had found a tiny smile and peeked up with it. "Nearly twenty-two," she corrected.

Imoen laughed. "Sure. Right you are. Twenty-two. Coming up on ancient, aren't ya? Always holding them extra years over me."

Her friend's eyes slid back across the fire. Like the flames done burned out all her merriment, her smile just fell away. The elf—Sajantha was staring at the elf. Dour fellow, he wouldn't know a smile if it chewed off his pointy ear. Didn't mean he had to eat up everyone else's!

"Try to get some sleep," Imoen told her. "Bet we can finally get a good night of it, snug in the middle of a bandit camp. They've got their own lookouts. And we're all on the same side." At least for now. "I mean, who'd be fool enough to attack a bunch of bandits?"

"That's what I thought!" Sajantha said. "To try subterfuge. But it seemed like I was the only one..."

"Hey, everyone went along with it, didn't they?" Bit of grumbling, sure, but the rest of the group jumped on board quick enough. Not that they'd had much of a chance to argue, so fast as it went down. "I don't think we coulda got close enough to scout their camp without being noticed, anyway." Not if they caught that elf so fast as they had. Sajantha had unstrapped her pack, was tugging it across her lap. "You gonna study?

"No," Sajantha said, "It's been awhile: I think I'm going to play."

Relief flowed over Imoen even before the first harp-notes flew. "Good on you," she said, "I missed it." But she knew already it'd be a serenade for just one person, a special occasion.

_ "Iire cormamin lindua..." _Across the fire, the elf looked up._ "____E__len sila lumenn ten'lle..."_

The rest of the group had kept bunched-up right to the edges of the camp, but the music followed Imoen the whole way, a melancholy dragging at her feet like she walked through wet sand.

"This plan worries me," Jaheira murmured. "How long can we maintain this farce? I wonder at Sajantha's wisdom."

Imoen came to a stop, put her hands on her hips. "And I wonder at yours; I coulda been just anyone. Better keep your private discussions more private."

Dynaheir rose. "A ward is in place," she said, "and thou wert allowed to pass it."

"Oh. Well, that's well and good, then. Can't have anyone eavesdropping, is all."

Khalid smiled. "Sit down, Imoen. Would you j-join us?"

"Love to," said Imoen, "but, first—Dynaheir, think you could show me this ward? Let me know how it works?"

"'Twould please me greatly."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Gnolls and hobgoblins. Even if she hadn't been forewarned, the smell might just have given them away; their upwind approach granted Sajantha several minutes to prepare before the sprawling bandit camp came into view.

Camp? They might have better called it a town: it surely rivaled Nashkel in size alone, never mind populace. The buildings were makeshift and the canvas tarps that wreathed them none-too-sturdy, but they'd clearly been functioning for months. A series of huts dotted the clearing, dozens of men weaving to-and-fro between them.

A loose breeze set her curls clinging to her face and a spring into her step. Suddenly her avoidance of a full-on assault seemed rather inspired. A half-ogre could not be so very different than a half-orc, than hobgoblins, could it?

A rhythmic beat, the chop of axe against wood, struck somewhere nearby, and Sajantha turned her head in time to see it was not firewood being split; 'twas a different crack she heard.

The bitter tang of bile flooded her mouth; Sajantha turned back front to spit it free as the leader of the bandits—that monstrous form could be no other—straightened to his full height, taller than the pair of gnolls that neared.

The gnolls' clawed fingers clutched a man's thin arms as they dragged him across the camp. A wet scream garbled free of the prisoner's narrow chest, bare breast heaving. His feet found no purchase as the two hauled him upright, forced him down. And a ringing thunk split the air as Tazok's axe bit deep, a silence just as sharp in its wake.

"'Ey, Tazok," said Teven. "We brung a few recruits for your assessment. Got a few look like they could swing a sword, no problem. And could always use the wee ones for some scribe-work, or sweeping up after the—"

"Do not tell me what I am thinking!" Muscled shoulders hunched and swallowing his neck, the bandit leader—half an ogre, only? He towered well over them—turned on Teven, setting down his foot with a stomp that shook the ground. "Why you bring me prisoners? No one supposed to know of camp!_ No one!"_

But his cruel eyes had locked on another's, behind her, with a startling intensity—A flash and a scuffle, and Tazok held the elf by the throat, a goodly span from the ground.

"Oh, this one looks familiar... I know this little elf." Tazok's large fingers flexed; the elf in his grip had only a moment to bare his teeth before crashing to the ground with a crunch. Tazok's large foot pinned him to stillness. The half-ogre stared down at him, one hand scratching at his chin as the other tightened upon his weapon. "Kevin, Devin... bah! Dead."

"_No!"_ Sajantha's scream cut off with a lurch and a thump. The elf hovered on his knees a moment before gravity called him the rest of the way down.

Tazok tried to take a step, and stumbled as he reached for the green arrow embedded into his shoulder. He jerked it free, quivering, as he faced them. "Are they after me, too? _Assassins!"_

Sajantha shook her head, hands still over her mouth. "No, no, we're not—we only just met him, I swear." Their cover was coming apart far too fast, far too exposed—here, in the middle of the bandit camp with no cover, their plan was disappearing fast as the daylight. The wind picked up, cool against her warm face. How many men surrounded them? Two dozen? Four? The low sun threw their many shadows across them like a weight. A net.

"They been asking all kinds of questions. Seems they know something about the goings-on." _Oh. Oh, no. _Teven wouldn't look at her.

But Tazok did. The bandit leader blocked out the light of the campfire; it rimmed him in a halo of flame. Sajantha took a step back. Her father had faced the ogres without flinching—

And without success.

He blotted out the sky, and there was only his silhouette stretching towards her, a smothering shadow. The inevitability of battle loomed as large. He lifted his hand, and, there!—behind him—an errant glimmer of red.

Hope was not garbed at all how she expected. Some trick? But, no, the Red Wizard stood out as much in the sprawling bandit camp as he had in the small inn of Nashkel. He strode towards them, crimson cloak blown back like great wings.

A surge from that same snapping wind filled her. She found her breath—heady, soaring, "The wizard will vouch for us! He'll tell you the same: we are but adventurers, just as we claim." Nearer, now, the wizard's eyes narrowed. "Our intent not untoward towards thee..." Sajantha lowered her voice, "but ever on the lookout for opportunity." At her last word, the Red Wizard tilted his head.

Tazok grunted. "Is this true, wizard?"

"Adventurers," the wizard repeated, crossing his arms, "venturing into trouble." His hood tipped to hide his expression; she held her breath. "From what I have seen, they are prone to blundering into messes with alarming frequency. Whether by ill luck or design, I could not say. I would not trust this lot with my laundering, though accrediting them with a seditious plot awards far more intelligence than they deserve."

"Ehh..." said Tazok, scratching his head.

"Exactly." The wizard stepped forward, surveying their group. A dark light in his eyes, now, but they had landed behind her. His thin lips stretched into a smile. "Leave them to me."

The elf's death so fresh and red in her mind, she did not look to see whom held his gaze, whom his lifted hand would strike. Behind her, Dynaheir's chant blended with the wizard's.

Desperate, now, no words to weave; symbols filled her head, instead. "_Wux vur ve," _Sajantha gasped; but that would not be enough, would not do it, "_thurirli—" _

"You dare?" said he, and while she held his attention, it was clear her spell had not taken hold, not nearly so fast as the one emerging clear from his own lips: "_Ava'yorn vutha vhir_."

Just what had Dynaheir's spell had protected them from? It did nothing to slow the shadow spilling over her. His eyes delved her own, growing darker—deeper—

"_Vorq vhira..._" Two glittering eyes swam in the sea of red flooding her vision. "_Vur vdri."_ Its waters closed over her head; she drowned.


	18. Chapter 18

That she had the effrontery to appear without prompting and deny him the chase! That she should walk into the camp with such brazenness!

Edwin clenched his teeth. No matter. The gnolls ought to occupy the witch long enough for him to prepare, and the brutes would soften her up nicely—or, with any luck, take care of the matter for him. Any information he gleaned now would be a bonus. And, as to that—

Edwin turned to survey his captives. That only they two had fallen to his enchantment could prove lucky, after all: 'twas the softest shells that cracked first.

"Why has a girl with a bounty on her wandered into a camp full of bandits, I wondered. Strange—_stupid—_but inconsequential. Although now I find a far more interesting question..." With the hold upon his spell released, the two girls were stirring at last. "What is she doing in the company of two Rashemi?"

"We're not gonna tell you a thing, you big bully!"

"You will answer me, you meddlesome brat, or you will know what it is to defy a Red Wizard!" His spell spoke the rest of his frustration for him; the spider's webbing thrust them both back into the chairs and ensured they would move no further.

Edwin clasped his hands together. "There. Now, perhaps, we can converse in a civilized manner. You will tell me what brought you to this camp."

"Teven brought us," the mop-headed girl spoke up.

Wrong answer. "I have been unnecessarily lenient. Already I am regretting it. Go on, then; continue your flippancy and see just how long I will suffer it." The two exchanged a glance. "Do you think there is any spell of yours I cannot counter?" He wedged a meaningful look between them. "A simple dispel ought to discourage any further attempts at resistance—perhaps even the threat of it is enough to ensure your cooperation?"

"We can put up a fight!" the pickpocket piped up, demonstrating her lack of sense once again.

Truly, such idiocy was astounding! "Are you blind so well as stupid? Even if you were to incapacitate me (and this is so unlikely as to be utterly fantastical), I am hardly the only one standing in your way. Surely even a brain as under-exercised as your own need not stretch too far to anticipate the bandit's reaction—and they outnumber you ten to one."

Stubbornness or simple stupidity? Either would be difficult to reason with, but Edwin had made do with worse; he did not give up so easily as that. "Were you so blind as to miss the bodies strung up outside the tents, the hobgoblins and their thirsty blades and not the discipline to restrain them—the cave full of gnolls—the sheer number of brigands strolling about? I could not even guarantee your choice of them."

"And what about their wizard?" The words left the other girl in a whisper. "If it's a choice: mayhap I'd choose him. You wouldn't be talking if all you were after was the bounty."

"So, there is a mind in there, after all." Edwin tilted his head. "No, I am after something more valuable: your secrets."

She sat back, the webbing embracing her eagerly. "I've no secrets!"

"I will be the judge of that! And I will draw all the spells from you, one by one, so that when you are thrown to the gnolls, you will be utterly at their mercy. Is this the end you would prefer?" One could hope their sudden silence was a reflection of respect, and not of sluggish contemplation. "Do not embarrass yourselves further. I require your cooperation, and I will have it."

"Tazok's in league with a man named Mulahey," the bounty's voice sounded far more certain than her wide eyes suggested. "Whomever they're working for has orchestrated the entire iron shortage. These bandits are part of their plot, somehow."

"And?"

She blinked. "What do you mean, 'and'? That's why we're here."

"Your logic escapes me. (Small wonder one of my intelligence cannot comprehend what passes for thought in the heads of monkeys...)"

"They're trying to start a war between Amn and Baldur's Gate!"

He stared at them, unmoved.

"And we're gonna stop them, you nasty old goat!"

"Yes, you're off to such a remarkable start, I see."

* * *

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Are you not yet done with these two, Edwin?" Another man ducked beneath the tent-flap, yellow robes catching at his step as he crossed the threshold, though he straightened quickly.

The Red Wizard—Edwin?—forced a breath out through clenched teeth. "They are as trifling an irritant as you are! I think the gnolls should better complement your company; make yourself useful, and take them with you."

Imoen's head jerked up, eyes flicking between the two men. "H-hey! Now wait just a second, here—"

The other man seemed even less enthused. "You forget who is the interloper, here, Wizard. Do not presume to order me about."

"Do not presume to interrupt me, you lean-witted hedgepig! Find your own interrogation room, or you will take a seat in mine."

There was power in a name, as any word, spoken rightly—did she dare? "Edwin." Sajantha willed him to look at her, to capture his attention—

He arced a perfectly disdainful eyebrow at her. "Silence, girl; words will do you little good. The time for talk has passed."

"We have your pouch," Imoen hollered, kicking against the chair leg. "You want it back, you better let us go!"

His mouth twisted. "You think to bargain with me for a sack of bat droppings and sulphur? You may have it. A small price to be rid of you."

Bargain. Something there, if she could just seize upon it: _A Red Wizard will only act for himself. _If only she knew what brought him here; if she had the smallest inkling of his plans—!

The bandit mage was already dispelling the weave that secured them to the chairs; he hauled Imoen upright. She tossed Sajantha a frightened look.

The Red Wizard had told them enough, already; mayhap she knew enough and could guess the rest. Sajantha cleared her throat. "You wished to make a deal, Edwin?" She had his gaze, if not yet his interest. "I know what you want," she said. The remaining strands of the spell-web ghosted down her legs as she stood. "Perhaps we can help each other."

"You would bargain with me? Oh, this will be good." Irritation or amusement? He seemed unable to decide, himself, but after another considering look, he waved the yellow-robed man off. "Your presence is no longer required, mageling. Leave us." The other man's eyes narrowed at his back.

"And that one, as well." Edwin pointed a finger—a spell—towards Imoen. Eyes rolled up, she slumped to the side, slipping to the ground.

Sajantha's nails dug into her palms.

"Very well." The Red Wizard turned back to her, then, peaking his fingers together. Curiosity: as open a look upon his face as she'd yet seen. "Let us hear it, then."

Sajantha took in a breath. "You can't possibly have long-term plans with the bandits."

"No?"

"They can't offer you what you want."

His long moustaches, those braids which framed his beard, stretched as if from a smile, though his voice spoke only scornful disbelief: "You claim to know what I want?"

The Rashemi. He had implied as much, himself. Two Rashemi, a Thayvian... hundreds of miles from their feuding lands. Too much of a coincidence to be anything else: "Something with Dynaheir."

"Hn," he said. It was not a noise of disagreement.

"You don't need to tell me I'm right; you don't need to tell me anything. But you don't need to tell the bandits anything, either." Sajantha glanced towards the darkened doorway, where the makeshift hut's door was drawn closed. Their slim chance of escape would slip to none if word of the bounty escaped.

The wizard leaned back. "You claim to know so much," he said. "Do you know, then, how much my silence will cost you? Just what is that pretty little head worth to you?" His voice dropped, dragging her own confidence down with it, "Or your friend's?"

_Imoen! _She tried to keep her face smooth, but Sajantha could not keep her hands from clenching, could not keep from a sharp intake of breath.

Not that it would have fooled him; he already knew: "It is dangerous to care about any one thing so much," the wizard warned, his smile sharp as the fingernails he stared at her over.

She knew that. She knew it. A sprig of fear unfurled in her stomach, twisted up to tighten 'round her chest. "Don't you dare touch her." Her voice came out hoarse, dragged out like it left little jagged tracks down her throat. She swallowed.

"Yesss, or you will set my hair afire, correct?" His smirk told her exactly what he thought of her earlier threat. She had not impressed him then, either. Sajantha twisted her fingers into her cloak to keep them from trembling. "This regard for your friend puts you in a rather unfortunate bargaining position. What could you possibly offer..."

_Nothing. _

Nothing but the realization of it, of Imoen's pale, fallen form; wit and words had failed her. Nothing but her breath coming faster, a pressure in her chest and behind her eyes.

Nothing to lose.

She'd stayed on the defensive far too long; Sajantha threw back her cloak—her caution—and flexed her fingers. "If she comes to harm, so too will you." She twisted her ring, wondering if she might provoke him again into battle, and if so, how quickly it would be over.

The wizard did not wait. His hand stretched out, though no spell flew from his fingers; he seized her own, pinched until her grip loosed. She gasped, eyes watering.

"A ring," he sneered, flinging her wrist free before she could yank her arm back herself. "I should have known. (No mortal could be so free to break the laws of magic.)"

She snatched her hand back to her side; dizzy, out of breath, her vision blurred as warmth built within her. Coals banked in the brazier beside her, only the faintest remainder of warmth, but heat covered her all over.

"Even your spell in Nashkel was an illusion, nothing of real substance. Do you possess any talent at all?"

Knowledge. She had the knowledge of it. Pages and pages, spell after spell she must never speak. Had never put to practice_._

"Feckless, as all sorcerers. With the proper schooling, perhaps your shred of potential might have been put to use... but, as they are, your skills would better serve a magician."

It wasn't just anger built up inside her, this climbing heat that clung to her insides, that crept in her mouth and burned her tongue. It was magic. The air sizzled with it, a sheen before her eyes. It grew it swelled it _surged _til she could not contain it; she rode the wave and it spilled free of her, _"Ibafarshan dos!"_

And her hands shot up as if they might protect her from her inward heat spilled outward: this wall of flame that soared high and strong, this fury within her given form. No illusion, its power burned bright as the fire. As blinding.

Spots danced in her eyes. Her chest heaved.

"She's thought this through, I see." The wizard's voice emerged muffled from the other side of the blaze, but his scorn was clear. "You cannot even reach the exit, girl! You've only built yourself a pyre."

A violet wall of flames clawed towards the ceiling; crackling and snapping, its dry tongues licked out after her as she jumped away. No plan to it, no form, nor art; the blaze roared with a hunger behind her. Sajantha shivered, no longer from glee. He was—he was right. The other half of the room held the wizard, it held the door. It held Imoen.

_"Ifni arcanus nif..." _Miirym used the same spell for transport through the underhalls! The wizard, evidently not content to let her burn, had to see it for himself.

She had to get past him. She had to get out. She had to get to Imoen. The flames moved in only one direction—upward—but might they not move, mightn't the smoke have already reached her? The fire fed upon the air, burning her throat. Sajantha's search turned fervent, now, desperate for anything to use—a weapon, something heavy—

Barrels beckoned, shoved against a large desk in the corner. _Too heavy_. The stool—?

A teleportation spell began to shimmer at her left; whirling, she hurled the stool at the wizard just as he materialized. Just _before _he materialized.

He spared it a glance as it bounded off the wall behind him. "How quickly she resorts to barbarian tactics, and after such a promising start. Exhausted all your spells so soon?"

Her father—when her father had run out of spells, he had withdrawn a knife. Sajantha's fingers hovered over its hilt; the wizard hadn't even feared her enough to disarm her.

"Damn you," she choked. Her gaze darted to Imoen, and met the snapping flames of the fire wall, instead. Its light burned her eyes to blinking. "Just let us go."

He folded his arms within capacious sleeves. "It is your own spell keeping you here."

"Then stay out of my way!"

"You stand in your own way. 'Twas your own incompetence that set the fire between yourself and the door; you might have otherwise escaped with ease. Relatively. (I wonder at her intentions.)"

Between his presence and the spell, the room felt far too small, too small for the growing anxiety in her chest. The fire built behind her. _No room to breathe._

He cocked his head. "You... you cannot control it, can you? (Of course such strong energies would be beyond her grasp.)" He looked again at the spell, face flickering in the firelight. "Wild magic, is it?" He stroked his beard. "This explains much."

"Let us go. I'll make a deal." _Anything, anything_, she bit back the words, but he could surely see them on her face. "Let me go to her."

"You're playing with fire—oh, so literally—little girl. (But... interesting. Perhaps I might be persuaded.)" He took a step towards her. "Very well. Let us make a deal... Sajantha."

She licked her lips, unnerved by her name on his tongue. The bounty—he'd read the bounty, of course. "What do you want?"

He bent forward—closer—but it was only his whisper that brushed against her, warm as the flames behind her: "It need not be a concern of yours. I only ask that when I come for it, you do not stand in my way."

Sajantha swallowed, side-stepping free of his shadow; the light of the flames sent it reaching after her. "What—what does that even mean? I'm not fool enough to commit to something like that! Without knowing!"

"No?" He drew himself back. "You've proven yourself quite the fool already. (Though just how foolish she is remains to be seen)."

"Not so much as you'd think, that I'd fall for a deal like that."

His eyes narrowed. "Yet fool enough to stroll into a camp of men with orders to kill you on sight! You were so sure they would not recognize you? You either overestimate their idiocy or underestimate your own."

"I had a plan!" And so nearly had it worked—she could have carried that character through, that bard weaving words—had the elf not interfered. His abrupt death struck her again with a shiver. What fate had befallen the rest of the group? She had to find out—she had to get out of here.

"Clearly." He gave the flames—finally dying down—a pointed look, then shook his head and sighed. "_Sajantha."_

Not like Imoen, who slurred her name out quick: S'antha, she sounded, but the wizard awarded it all the syllables it was due; his accent seemed to lavish extra attention upon it, giving her name a grand delivery she was unaccustomed to: Say-_onth_-ah. She shifted.

"If your head is not enough, there is something else I might offer you."

"Oh?"

"I know who the bandits answer to. And I know how badly he wants you dead."

She crossed her arms, halting a lean forward that would reveal her eagerness. "So tell me."

"You will not have your answer so easy as that." His folded arms mirrored hers, as though mocking. "It comes at a price."

"What? I don't know what you want. What do you want me to say!"

"You wished to make a deal. Accept mine, and you may hold the answer and your secret both."

That nebulous deal? Such a thing to blindly agree to! Fool, indeed, she would be, to agree.

"Do not waste time pretending you have a choice." His eyes snaked towards Imoen.

Sajantha's heart picked up speed. She'd wasted time enough, already. "You—you can't make me kill anyone."

"Very well."

"Or hurt them. Or lie."

He grit his teeth. "Fine."

"And it's between you and I. I won't have you dragging her into it." Whatever it was. She wouldn't have Imoen settling her debts.

"Yes, yes. Are you done?"

As if she stood very near a precipice, and gravity gathered to claim her—light-headed, as though awaiting a drop—an energy spread, buzzing across her skin: a confidence made manifold as she saw Imoen stirring behind him. "Aye," she said. "And, Edwin," Sajantha locked eyes with him, an anchor to banish her vertigo, "whoe'er it be that wants me dead: you'll not let them take me—or my head."

"Not a hair on it," he agreed, dipping his own head in a mock-bow.

* * *

~*-{/=E=\}-*~

"So we've a deal?"

Edwin eyed her outstretched hand. The girl dripped magic like a leaky spigot! Not that she had a clue how to put it to use. He left her hand hanging in the air a good moment past courtesy before he shook it. Westerners and their unhygienic, barbaric customs! She did not even have the grace to suppress the shudder that he did: shivering, she took a step back, the heel of her hand steadying herself as it pushed back her mess of hair. Unkempt as a slave! Truly, his prospects were nearing appalling.

Not that this prevented them from growing worse. "What's going on?" Tazok's pet mage had slithered in once more, looking from the cooling brazier up to the ceiling. "Some of the men saw a fire. Couldn't handle your little prisoners?"

The sorceress stepped forward, hands on hips. "Everything's under control."

As if the two wished to compete for being the greater annoyance! Edwin granted her a disparaging look before sneering at the man, "Indeed, mageling: your continued interference is not appreciated."

The mage did not move, though his eyes roamed between them. "No one else wanted to deal with you. They all hoped you'd been burned alive."

And, lacking the wherewithal to see their desires through themselves, they sent this fool in substitute. "I do hope you've a better reason to test my patience, or we may very well find someone burned alive, after all. What is the meaning of this?"

"What is the meaning of _this?" _The mage pointed at the girl, whose hand flew to her necklace as if prepared to brace herself; her ready stance said the same. Had she not heard of subtlety? Her obvious defense only put the man more ill-at-ease. "Why is she not bound?" he demanded.

"That one has passed my inspection, which means she deserves at least the minimal respect I accord you." Trifling, to be sure, but Edwin would not have tolerated this incessant questioning of his methods so long, otherwise.

"Passed...?" Suspicion crawled across the other man's face. "They're to be executed. Tazok himself decided before he left on patrol."

"Pity," Edwin murmured. But it would have ended messily, sooner or later.

The other man had but a moment to find his suspicions validated as Edwin spread his fingers; the mage reached into his spell pouch. "Traitors!" he cried. "'Ware—" With his arm outstretched, the man fell in a limp pirouette. An arrow bristled from his throat.

"Think you could teach me how to set one of them arrows afire, next time?" Across the room, the pickpocket grinned as she lowered her bow.

* * *

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"I have had about enough of this," the wizard muttered. His cloak flared out in a red streak behind him as he stepped outside. Show-off.

Imoen turned to Sajantha with raised eyebrows. "Just what did I miss?"

"I..." Sajantha glanced ahead, then back at her. "I'll tell you later. I think we'd better hurry."

The Red Wizard waited just outside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

"Where's our friends?" Imoen asked him. "In this gnoll cave?"

His shoulders came up as if he took in a big breath, a sigh waiting to happen. "I doubt they are in any condition to leave... so, yes. Whatever is left of them." His gaze dropped, right to her bow, and a sneer popped onto his face. "At least _try _to parade about less conspicuously, or you may not live long enough to reacquaint yourselves."

So Imoen tucked her bow beneath her cloak. Wouldn't do no good under there, but getting caught again wouldn't do much good, either. A spell would do her better—maybe something like that horror the other night that'd gone crawling inside her head—cast something like that, send this crowd running, and them free to run off in the other direction. The weight of her hidden bow didn't seem like any kind of comfort.

The wizard waved his hand in a shooing motion. No magic to it, though, just a brush-off. "The cave is up ahead; even one of your limited capacities could not miss it." Somehow his accent made everything he said sound like an insult. Well, even more of an insult.

"You ain't coming with us?"

"I am _escorting _you, which I cannot do without my eye upon you, yes? (Such a vaunted use of my abilities.) As far as the camp knows, you are both prisoners. And unless you wish to be dead, you will act like one." He held his hand out. "No doubt it will be too much to ask you to keep your mouth shut (even in defense of your worthless life), but know that you continue to question me at your peril."

Sajantha reached for her arm, pulling her close til their shoulders bumped. "Not the best time to make a fuss about it." She glanced up, and Imoen followed her eyes, taking in their audience: more of them bandits strolled around here than guards hopped about Nashkel; the place might as well have been a small city of them.

Imoen gulped as they started walking. "Kinda creepy having him at our backs, though, ain't it?" He could be summoning all sorts of nasty things ready to throw at them. If she turned around, what would he do? Throw her a glare, or a fireball? Might be he couldn't, without that sulphur, but the spot between her shoulder blades just itched.

Sajantha didn't seem so concerned. "If he wanted to kill us, he would have already."

Imoen stared at her. "Why you gotta say that like you think it's reassuring?" But somehow it almost was, the way their fingers linked together as her friend squeezed her hand—the almost-smile that reached all the way to Sajantha's determined eyes: it looked just like her old self.


End file.
